A Boy In Need
by Hughesish
Summary: This is the third part in the Runaway Home series. It is a parentlock fic and could probably be read alone if you'd like, but there will probably be references to the other stories. Especially given John and Sherlock's age difference. Other wise it is mainly focused on Hamish. Also, I don't know why it's rated M. Probably for violence and possible sexy times.
1. Chapter 1

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 1**

**Here it is guys!**

"Oh my! That is impressive!"

"You did that? No!"

"How long did that take you? Must have been ages!"

"You are a natural! Your parents must be very proud."

"Have you considered becoming a professional?"

"I'm not sure I understand the name."

The praise was endless, but there were many who had come to question the title of Hamish's piece, not just the husky blonde woman. It came as no surprise, the title hadn't been meant to be universally understood. Just something he thought could bring a smile to his parent's faces. However, in order for that to occur they would have to be present. This was his first art showing and he'd entered one painting. He wasn't an overly shy boy but his art wasn't something he normally put on display, much like his father's musical talents. His dad had encouraged him to do this, promised he would be here. After three hours he had little faith that the man intended to meet that promise. The show would be ending soon, the judges were already wrapping up. He could tell by how the third man had stopped tapping his pen so frequently. When he looked back to the woman he gave a weak smile and turned to observe his work.

"It's sort of an inside joke ma'am, I wouldn't expect you would."

He explained kindly and she nodded with a smile and then made her way off to the next stand. Hamish debated just walking out, but he was a good couple of miles away from home at Baker Street and it was raining. He shouldn't have let Mrs. Hudson drop him off in the first place, that would have been smart, but that had been before when he was still hopeful. After hour three he was just standing there for lack of anything better to do. It wasn't as though he'd thought to ask someone else to pick him up; he certainly didn't have cab money.

The judges were beginning to set up the stage to announce the winner and everyone seemed to be gathering but Hamish couldn't be bothered. He hadn't gone there to enter any competition; he'd gone there so his parents could be proud of him. They often didn't understand his artwork, or really appreciate it like his art professors or friends did, but if they could see how other people reacted to his paintings, then perhaps they might begin to understand. Or at least he had hoped they would. At the moment he just wished they'd have shown up. Even the thirty year old in the stand next to him had people there to support him. Hamish wished they'd stop fawning over his work. The brush strokes were sloppy and they all had highly irritating voices.

"Hamish Watson."

The judge's voice echoed through the large show room and Hamish looked up with surprise. Out of all the pieces there he hadn't expected his name to have been called at all. He approached the stage as several people began waving him over. When he finally made it up the older judge firmly gripped his left shoulder and smiled down approvingly.

"How about a big hand for Hamish here, he's our youngest contestant yet to win first place!"

He announced to the crowd and the room erupted in applause. Hamish smiled and nodded appropriately and wondered just how long he was expected to stay on stage.

"Everyone should be sure to stop at his stand, its number 34. His piece is stunning and does a simply beautiful job of giving a message of peace and the humble elegance of nature. When you go to see it you will notice he's used oil paints on canvas and the main focus of the work appears to be a duck resting on the surface of a lake in what appears to be the center of a forest of sorts. The painting is titled 'Vatican Cameos' and is this years first prize winner!"

Once the man finished there was another round of applause followed by the calling of the second and third place winners. From atop the stage he had a perfect view of the entire room despite how large it was and could see that his fathers had managed to miss his shining moment. It hadn't been what he'd been dreaming of or anything, but he'd have liked them to have seen it. The only reason he'd joined was because Mycroft had mentioned it to his dad who had taken it upon himself to sign Hamish up. He was only thirteen but it hardly seemed appropriate to him for his dad to be making such personal decisions for him. But he'd agreed because his dad had promised to be there along with father. Hamish had painted that stupid duck just to make what he considered to be a clever play on words that only his parents could appreciate. They hadn't come though, and now he just looked like an idiot, felt like an idiot.

Once the prizes had been handed out they were free to go back to looking at the surrounding art work. Hamish wouldn't have done it they'd paid him. Despite the crowd that had formed around his painting he began packing his things up and gathered the useless piece of art. A few people attempted to pat him on the back or congratulate him but he ignored them in a fashion that would have made Mrs. Hudson cringe. Hamish wasn't in the mood to be bothered with trivial things such as manners. His parents had promised to be there, they had given their word. Even his father who was normally loathed to participate in such social events hadn't appeared to be lying.

The rain outside was coming down in buckets and given that it was already eight in the evening it was quite dark. If his cell phone hadn't been broken during one of his father's experiments earlier in the week he might have tried to call someone. He looked up at one of the CCTV cameras on top of a corner shop and wondered if uncle Mycroft would see him and send a car around. However he was busy with some nonsense in Korea so is was doubtful. After a half hour of walking his clothes and bag were soaked and his painting ruined. He looked down at the first place winning painting that had done nothing but lead to a miserable and highly disappointing night. Suddenly he was past irritation, past contempt, or annoyance, or hurt. He was just angry, so angry that he threw the offending painting to the ground and kicked a rather large hole through the canvas.

Hamish spent the rest of what was left of his walk home with clenched fist and muttered curses. He thought of everything he hated about his fathers, every time they'd let him down, all of the broken promises. It only made him feel worse. In fact at one point he could have broken into angry tears, but he couldn't be sure do to all of the rain. Hamish wasn't entirely sure he wanted to return to Baker Street, but he didn't have much choice given the weather. So he continued his journey there and thought of a life without parents who couldn't stick to their promises.

It's important in this moment to note that this was the first event that would send Hamish down a path that would undoubtedly have a great affect on him. For better or worse is something that could hardly be determined so early on. However things would certainly change. But it is also important to realize that while the situation Hamish finds himself in is not a particularly nice one, and he is completely within his rights to be angry with his fathers, that John and Sherlock are not bad parents. In fact there are at least several dozen other examples in which they were doing things just exactly right in their own unique way. Examples which may be necessary for those of you reading to be aware of before you start making your own assumptions about these men's ability to raise a child.


	2. Chapter 2

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 2**

**Honestly, this is just to get all of the fluff stuff filled before I pack this story full of angst. Also, sorry for the lateness! Also, also, I reference something from the first story in here. If you haven't read it, you will be shit out of luck my firend.**

There are many examples of John and Sherlock being exceptional fathers in their own way. However there are four in particular that will be shown today. These for are not necessarily the greatest examples, nor are they the worst, in fact in some ways they are examples of nothing more than that Sherlock and John were in fact present through out Hamish's life, however they are the ones that have been chosen and that is all that will be said about that.

The first one takes place on a rainy day in the spring.

* * *

The rain was coming down in a fashion that reminded Sherlock of the time he spent in the tropics. It was heavy and abrasive and was soaking the entire city with excellent attention to detail. He'd never been a fan of rain, it washed away clues and often distracted is train of thought. However it wasn't the rain that was distracting him that day in particular. No, what kept distracting him from his experiment pertaining to his most recent case was the three year old attempting to see just how loud he could yell. Hamish had never been an overly shy child, but it was rare for his volume to exceed that of a launching rocket.

Sherlock turned away from his experiment on the kitchen table to face the boy sitting in the living room attempting to yell as loudly as possible. From what he could observe there was no reason for Hamish to be making such noises. He had been given lunch, he had received a nap at a reasonable time and had not woken too early from it, and he had an adequate supply of toys. As far as the detective could reason there was no purpose to the boy's noisiness.

"Hamish, there is no cause for such needless shouting."

Sherlock declared from his seat at the table. Hamish quieted for a moment to look over at his newly adoptive father and stared contemplatively. The detective was curious about the response but ignored his spiked interest in favor of his experiment. However the silence didn't last long as about two minutes later the yelling picked up again. Sherlock turned and watched as Hamish shouted at nothing in particular, just keeping one eye trained on his father as he sat in the middle of the living room shouting.

"Really Hamish, I haven't the time. Your dad will be home from work once he's picked up the shopping. It shouldn't be more than another half hour. Surely you can wait that long for some attention. Honestly, it's not as though I didn't read to you before your nap."

Sherlock reasoned with the three year old who studied him from the floor in now perfect silence. The detective's curiosity peeked and he observed the child quietly for a moment before returning to his experiment. It didn't take long for the toddler to begin his new favorite activity up again and this time the man could not simply let it go. He stood up and walked away from his experiment and towards the toddler who instantly shut his mouth once again. Sherlock leaned over and plucked the boy up from the floor and stood so he could look him in the eyes.

"Just what is it that you are up to?"

He questioned the boy speculatively. Hamish moved forward and grabbed his father's ears with each of his small hands and wiggled them. Sherlock blanked for a moment as he processed what was happening.

"You hear?"

Hamish asked curiously as he let go of the man's ears. Sherlock stared for a while before nodding slowly.

"Oh, you don't hear on the sofa."

Hamish continued thoughtfully and Sherlock felt the gears in his head turn restlessly before coming to an abrupt stop. Hamish was conducting an experiment with his father's hearing. John had told him about Hamish yelling at him as he lay in his mind palace on the sofa the other day to work out the details of the case. The toddler was testing the detective's hearing capabilities while at work it seemed.

"Well… no, I tend to block out noise when I enter my mind palace."

Sherlock explained, hoping to enlighten the curious boy. A slow smile was forming on the man's face as he considered just how proud he was of his son. He knew that technically Hamish didn't possess his genetic material, but at times this Holmesian aspect of him would shine through and it never failed to impress. It was possible that Sherlock's presence had that affect on the young developing mind, but he liked to think that the boy's parentage was meant to be in some cosmic way. Though he admitted it did sound rather ridiculous.

"Daddy said that. He said you talk to yourself because your silly and you ignore everything. Which is why he likes to call you funny names when you go there."

Hamish replied in a tone that harbored so little room for debate Sherlock could have sworn that he was explaining some sort of well known scientific theory. The detective was a bit taken back by the statement, but considered it fit given his husband's inclination towards humor.

"Hmm, well we'll have to put a stop to that. It's not nice to call someone names now is it?"

Sherlock posed and Hamish nodded vigorously in response.

"That's what I thought. Now, let's go make a fort out of your dad's jumpers. We can pretend we're pirates."

* * *

"It's already been decided Hamish."

Sherlock said sternly as he moved away from their living room window and turned to face his seven year old son. The boy was short for his age (no surprise there) but he held himself in a manner that made him appear much bigger. It was quite impressive really, although it was not the time to admire such traits as currently they were being used in defiance.

"Hamish, I know you may not think so now, but the violin is really such a lovely instrument. Besides lessons are only every other day and once you get the hang of it you can start to have some real fun using the thing."

John added softly from his seat on the sofa. Ever the mediator John was there to smooth away all the disturbances between members of the house hold. Hamish stood his ground and held his father's stare, not even breaking to look at his dad when he spoke.

"I learned when I was your age; it is an excellent way to strengthen the mind. One must indulge in such artistic practices to sharpen the senses."

Sherlock continued firmly and strode towards the boy, sizing him up as he went.

"And as your dad said, you may grow to find it fun. It is highly entertaining in its own right and-"

"That's what you think. _You_ like the violin, not me."

Hamish interrupted with ferocity. Sherlock was stricken silent for a moment before drawing even nearer to the resilient youth.

"You will grow to like it, and you will thrive because of it."

The detective urged and looked over to John warily as he did so. His husband gave a shrug but said nothing. They had discussed their son's education previously and John had agreed that violin would be something he would benefit from. Though John himself did not understand why the detective felt so strongly for it, he respected the decision. However that meant Sherlock was left to stand by his choice on his own as John would not have much to argue for.

"You think that but you are wrong. I don't like music like you do, I don't feel it as you do. I will hate it."

Hamish protested and took his own bold step forward towards his opposing father.

"How will you know if you do not try?"

Sherlock questioned imperiously, looking down at the child with a growing sense of familiarity.

"I just do. It is a feeling I get. When I look at a violin, when I hear music, it doesn't make me feel like you do."

Hamish explained with mounting fervor.

"Oh? And how do you know what _I_ feel."

Sherlock challenged with an arched brow.

"I know because I have felt it too, but with something different… I've watched you play, and I've seen the look on your face when you do it. It's as though you are some place different, a place where you can think clearly and feel deeply. I know this because I have seen the same look on my own face when I paint. I may be seven and I know you think my age makes me know less, but I know this. I know that painting is what I want to do, not playing a violin. If you make me play I will hate it, and because of it I will hate you too."

Hamish supplied with vehemence. John looked as though he were about to intervene when Sherlock held up his hand to stop him. The detective now knew where he'd seen this before, where he'd heard those words of passion in his past. They had been spoken by his own person at such an age when his mother had insisted he take piano like Mycroft. However he'd already had his eyes set on a violin since he'd heard his grandmother speak of how his grandfather used to play, how the music would sweep him away. His mother had been adamant at first, but in time she realized that her son had his heart set on the violin. He knew the feeling stirring in the young boy's bones because he had once felt it himself, and to see it again filled him with an unexpected pride. That Hamish would choose such a thing; forge his own path based on his own passions, not allowing himself to bend to the pressures of his parentage. They were raising someone who would not be swayed easily, one who would stand for what he believed in, someone so much like his dad. He could see the spark in the boy's eyes he'd seen in John's the day they'd discussed the blonde's role in investigations.

"It's painting lessons you desire then?"

Sherlock asked as he held back a grin. Hamish brightened up immediately and John looked completely shocked. The boy nodded his head furiously and then the detective did smile.

"Very well. We will search for a compatible instructor tomorrow."

Sherlock stated with determination, he would still be sure to find someone of merit, though he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to judge such a thing in a field he knew little about. Hamish broke out into a large grin and launched himself at his father, embracing him in a tight hug.

"Thank you father, you won't regret it!"

He announced merrily and then hugged John as the man stood from the sofa before racing off to his room. There was a moment of silence after the bedroom door was slammed shut and then John stepped closer to his husband.

"You know, he's far too smart for his own good. Did you here him just then? Sounded like a scholar. I blame you and that fancy prep school; I was never that bright at his age."

John said in mock distaste and Sherlock couldn't help but smirk.

"Well, to be fair you did receive one too many knocks to the head, might we deduce that you lost a few brain cells in the process."

Sherlock countered playfully which earned him a glare that held no real anger.

"You know, I'd punch you if you weren't so damn cute."

John replied and Sherlock scrunched his nose at the doctor's choice of words.

"Cute? I am not _cute_."

"Yes you are. And you're a good dad too."

John answered and then placed a kiss to the taller man's lips.

* * *

Hamish hadn't been attending school very long, but by the way he paraded around with his school bag and lunch pale you'd have thought he'd been doing it all his life. At least John thought so as he watched his son exit the school building with his normal quick stride that looked so much like a certain detective's he knew. He smiled at the thought of how the boy admired his father so much so that he copied his mannerisms and even declared a week ago that he planned to become a consulting pirate detective. When Hamish came to a stop in front of his dad he looked up with a bit of confusion.

"What is it Hamish, everything go alright at school?"

John inquired as he searched his son's face.

"I suppose so… dad, did you ever… has a girl ever… _fancied_ you?"

Hamish asked cautiously.

"Well, as surprising as it might sound, yes. Quite a few actually. Why do you ask?"

John said with a hint of laughter in his voice. Hamish turned and viewed the crowed of school children for a beat before looking up to his father.

"There is a girl here, Susie. She appears to fancy me. At least she said so in the note she sent me during lessons. But I'm not sure what to do."

Hamish confessed as he retrieved the crinkled note from his trouser pocket. From what the doctor could see the note was written in crayon and presumably by another nine year old in Hamish's class.

"Well, that depends on one thing really. Do you fancy her as well?"

John asked softly as he recalled his own tales of young love during primary school, mostly with girls that were older and with long braids if he remembered correctly. The boy shifted restlessly for a moment as he considered what his dad had said before he began speaking again.

"I… well I suppose I do. She's pretty, and she helps me with my math lessons in class."

Hamish explained as he stared intently at the note in his small hands.

"In that case there's only one thing to do. Tell her you fancy her as well. Life is too short for being indecisive Hamish. If you like someone then you should tell them, it's as simple as that, you shouldn't ever feel ashamed to let someone know that you care. Especially if you consider all the time you could waste where you two might become closer, be happier. I know I lost much too much time with your father by being too scared. I'd hate to see the same thing happen to you."

John informed the school boy knowledgably. Hamish stood for a moment before slipping the paper back into his pocket and smiling up at the blonde.

"You're right, I'll tell her tomorrow."

Hamish declared as he took hold of his dad's hand and they walked towards the tube station.

"There's a lad. If you're lucky she may even give you a kiss."

John mentioned with a nudge to the boy's shoulder as he laughed lightly. Hamish looked up at him with a wicked grin and arched his eyebrow.

"You mean if _she's_ lucky."

He drawled out and John broke into a deep full laugh at that. The doctor scooped up the boy playfully as he chuckled and rubbed his knuckles into the brown mop of hair.

"That's my boy!"

* * *

The defiant nine year old soon turned to an equally defiant ten year old. One who was just a bit too bold for his own good. Or at least John had said as much during the long cab ride home from the prep school. The doctor was fuming mad, and even his rebellious son was hesitant to cross him further. Once they entered their flat Sherlock was already poised in the living room and at attention. He knew that while John was often the softer more 'reasonable' parent, he was also the disciplinarian in most scenarios. So there was little doubt from anyone that the furious look on the man's face meant that he was seconds away from giving his son a piece of his mind.

"Why is it that I'm receiving calls in the middle of my work day that _my_ son is fighting in school?"

He asked angrily through clenched teeth. Hamish shuffled awkwardly for a moment before shooting a pleading glance towards his father who simply waved in encouragement.

"It wasn't my fault! It was Donovan, he was being a dick!"

Hamish shouted defensively. Sherlock muttered something that could have been 'figures' but shut up when he was given a scathing look from his spouse. John shut his eyes while he processed the information and then pinned the boy with a searing stare.

"I don't care what he was doing, I care about you. It is not ok for you to use violence for anything. If you've got a problem tell a teacher or your father and me. And watch your language!"

John bellowed and Hamish cringed minutely at the tone in his dad's voice.

"We were out in the school yard though, he was about to hit one of the younger kids. Besides he's a brute, the only reason he goes there is because his mom gets so much in child support from that ugly dinosaur lover who knocked her up, he only understands violence."

Hamish argued and balled his hands into fists at his sides. John blanked for a moment at the name he'd given Anderson and wondered just how such a thing even crossed his mind but he quickly ignored the inquiry in favor of continuing their conversation.

"It is not your job to teach him such a lesson, Hamish. I think that's what your dad is trying to explain."

Sherlock interjected and Hamish was about to protest when John pointed towards the stair case forcefully.

"Just go to your room. Think about what you did today, because you've disappointed me, make no mistake about that. I don't care how justified you felt, what you did today makes me feel so… you're better than that."  
John demanded roughly and Hamish stared wide eyed for a moment before heading towards the stairs. When he reached the second step he turned to look back at his dad.

"I'm sorry I disappointed you dad, but I won't apologize for doing it. If I hadn't done something he would have hurt that kid, then I would have been disappointed in myself."

Hamish said softly before retreating into his room. The silence in the flat was stifling and John could feel his husband's eyes burning holes into the back of his neck.

"Whatever it is you want to say, just say it."

He blurted out turning to face the detective.

"I was just going to say he reminds me an awful lot of someone I know."

Sherlock admitted tentatively. John considered for a moment that Hamish's actions did remind him a bit of himself. He'd never necessarily been fond of violence given his own childhood, but when needed he wasn't hesitant to dole it out. Perhaps he had been more upset than had been needed, but he certainly didn't want his son to think that fighting was the way to solve all of his problems. John nodded at Sherlock to show that he understood and then looked up in the direction of his son's room. He thought about how he was at that age and how he'd gotten into similar scrapes for just as noble of causes. In retrospect he figured his anger may have stemmed more from his desire for his son to be so much more than himself, but if he thought about it what he'd done was good and with pure intention. Besides, Hamish was only human, and he was his son.

John climbed the stairs slowly after giving the topic more thought and tapped on the boy's door lightly. Hamish said it was unlocked and the doctor took that as an invitation to enter the room. The child looked up at him cautiously and shifted nervously on his feet. John sighed and observed his son for a beat before moving towards him and giving him a hug. Hamish seemed confused but accepted the hug and returned it with hesitance.

"Hamish, I don't want you to ever think that standing up for someone or something is wrong. I just hate to see you resort to such measures. If you have no other choice than to use violence, then I suppose it's what you have to do, but you should remember that usually there is a better way. I'm still upset about today, but I respect your choice to stand up to a bully."

John said simply and then kissed the boy on the top of his head before backing away.

"Thanks dad."

"No problem Hamish, just remember what I said… I love you son."

"I love you too."

* * *

Whatever you might have thought of the previous examples doesn't really matter, what really matters is that you understand that John and Sherlock do not make a habit of being bad parents. Another important thing to understand would be that Hamish was not thinking of these examples or any others when he ran out into the rain after the art show. He was not thinking of them then, and he certainly wasn't thinking of them when the sleek black car pulled up behind him.

**So that was my attempt at fluff… I may need to work on that.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 3**

**I made up the prep school by the way; I couldn't find one I liked. Hope you don't mind it :p**

It was probably impractical for Hamish to have spent as much time as he had on destroying his painting. However the decision to do so had little effect on the situation at hand. The car would have found him one way or another; it takes far more effort to fight fate than to simply manage one's time efficiently. When it pulled up behind him slowly and deliberately, he initially mistook it for one of his Uncle's signature vehicles, but as he drew nearer he recalled Mycroft's business abroad. The rain was pouring down rather heavily though, and the car had stopped in a manner he knew was meant for him. There was no use in soaking himself further if he could get a ride. The window began rolling down when he was close enough and he peered in to see a young woman sitting in the back. She had to be about a year or so older than him and had a slim figure with an attractive face. Her hair was in a tight bun with a single lock of hair curling at each side of her face, affectively framing it. Her eyes were black as coals which only made her hair seem a lighter shade of brown. For a moment he found himself trapped in her stare before his drenched clothes forced a shiver through his body and he recalled just why he'd approached the car in the first place.

"Do you think you could give me a ride? I'd hate to impose, but my ride sort of never showed, and it's rather wet out."

He questioned with a motion towards the rain thundering down on him and the rest of London. The girl smirked in amusement and opened the car door before scooting over. Hamish didn't hesitate to follow after her and slam the door shut. He relished in the warmth of the car and the lack of water when he realized he was being watched, closely. The girl's eyes were sharp and held a spark in them like no other, he felt himself shiver again, this time at the intensity in her gaze.

"What your name?"

The boy asked hesitantly.

"Everyone calls me Reta. Well, they did… I'm new in town, my family just moved here. I was just on my way back from shopping when we saw you."

Reta informed. The 'we' she was referring to would be herself and the driver. Or at least Hamish figured it was the driver given his formal attitude and lack of communication. He observed the shopping bags for a moment and saw on top a black vest that bore the crest his school placed on all of their students clothing.

"You're going to be attending Elderberry prep school, that's where I go."

Hamish stated as he gestured towards her bags and she smiled slyly.

"Not too shabby. You're a clever one, I like that."

Reta purred and Hamish could feel his cheeks heat at her tone and wondered if it was simply a part of puberty to go from fuming mad to aroused so quickly.

"Yes well, one has to be with the family I've got."

He replied with only a hint of bitterness. Often enough he felt smart in his own right, but being around his father or uncle could make him feel extremely inadequate.

"Well, setting aside your obvious family issues, I think it only fair I ask you where they might reside. I'm sure despite your feelings towards them it was home you were headed towards wasn't it? I'm mean, given the hour and all."

She pressed forward with a calm voice that seemed just a tad forced.

"Yes, I was heading home. Thank you. It's at 221b Baker Street."

The boy announced so the driver could hear as well. The car started up at the girl's signal and there was a moment of silence before Reta looked back over at him with curiosity.

"What were you doing before you got stranded in the rain? If you don't mind me asking."

She questioned and Hamish considered lying. He wasn't ashamed of his hobby, but he wasn't fond of receiving too much attention for it. A lot of people couldn't see past their own preconceived notions of what 'artistic types' were like to think of Hamish in any other light. Besides, he had come to dread the boring questions that came along with that conversation. On occasion he was even asked to paint portraits (for those who had seen his work obviously) which was always hateful because of course he didn't want to do them and of course his dad would be angry at him for saying so. Reta seemed smart though, and interesting, and it would be nice to have another friend at school. So it would be counter productive to lie.

"I was at an art showing. I presented a painting in it… but those really aren't my thing. I only went because my dad wanted me to, and he didn't even show."

Hamish explained sourly. The feelings were still raw, even if he was trying to make pleasant conversation.

"Hmm, problems with daddy I take it? I suppose we all do though don't we?"

Reta inquired dubiously.

"Yes well, I've got two so I guess that makes it doubly so for me."

Hamish commented and instantly regretted it. He'd learned early on that his multiple father situation could easily become a problem for many people.

"Oh? Don't look so grim. I don't mind. My own family tree has a bit of un-traditional turns. To be honest I don't have a mother or father. They both abandoned me in their own way, and now I'm left to my grandmother who doesn't want much to do with me."

She confessed with ease. Hamish was comforted that she was open minded, though her attitude towards her family was a bit odd. However he wasn't one to judge.

"Well, we've all got our burdens to bear don't we? Sorry though, to hear about your parents. If it makes you feel any better I didn't meet my mum either."

Hamish admitted solemnly. He'd often wondered about his mum, but it wasn't a topic either of his dads wanted to discus.

"Not better, but it's good to hear I've someone who understands a bit."

Reta said with a smile that looked a bit out of place on her face. The boy imagined she wasn't a person who smiled often. That didn't bother him much; overly happy people weren't to be trusted as far as he was concerned. Besides, she was pretty and smart, and she was going to his school, it couldn't hurt to give her a chance. As they rode home he thought of just how miraculous meeting Reta had been and that while it had been a pleasant diversion, there was still a simmering anger deep in the pit of his stomach. He didn't take his parent's broken promises lightly.


	4. Chapter 4

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 4**

**ATTENTION! Oh my god guys. So sorry about the recent lateness, my computer has been on the fritz. I actually had this chapter completely finished and then it died entirely. Apparently the charging port is broken and yeah, so my laptop can't charge. Which sucks because now I need to pray for the money to fix that. It may take longer for chapters to be updated until it gets fixed. I will still try to aim for one a day, but we may be looking at more like three or four times a week. **

**Ok, so yeah. So I rewrote this chapter, and it's probably ten times more angsty and angry (and a bit shorter) than before because that's how I feel since I'm in love with my laptop. **

**Warning: depictions of gore and violence! Lot's of blood and guts, be warned!**

That day had started out with several phone calls, all of which John made himself. He called and made sure everything would be perfect. The schedule at work was all set so that there was no way save for some sort of massive pandemic that he could be called into the surgery, however he called just to remind them. Then of course there was a call to Lestrade to inform him that there would be no cases that day, they could take no chances in being kidnapped the day of Hamish's art showing. He called Mrs. Hudson as well, she had been charged with the duty of taking Hamish to the art show from school. Sherlock and John might have been at home, but the flower arrangement they'd ordered wouldn't be done until the exact time he'd be exiting the school building. So they would pick up the flowers and meet Hamish at his stand.

John didn't see much sense in the flowers and argued with Sherlock that it might be better to just skip them all together so that they could help Hamish set up his painting. Neither of them was more familiar with such things as Mrs. Hudson but John felt a sense of obligation. However Sherlock complained that he had always received a very specific floral arrangement when he performed the violin publicly. The detective wanted the very same for their son, he demanded nothing less than perfection. Which was why it was taking so damn long.

The doctor prided himself in always planning for the unexpected after living with the mad detective for over twenty years, but when Mycroft called he was truly out of his depths. The politician informed them that Irene Adler had been murdered and that it was imperative that Sherlock take the case. The man was still out of the country and though at the arrival of this news was headed home on the first plane out he still would not be back until late that night. John knew that Sherlock considered her as some odd sort of friend but he had made a promise to their son and he wasn't sure how long this would take. There were four hours until the show began and John knew how Sherlock could get on a case, he didn't want to take that chance.

Mycroft had one more bomb to drop, one that made refusal impossible. The murderer had left something at the scene amongst the wreckage. A photograph, one that had been taken two days prior in the tube station, presumably by the killer and it was of Sherlock, John, and Hamish. The picture had been folded into the shape of a heart and pinned in her forehead. Sherlock went pale and accepted the case without another word. If there was a killer out there on the lookout for them then it was important they catch him and fast. Mycroft had a team of men who were handling the case, guarding the crime scene and awaiting orders from Sherlock, and another which were keeping a close eye on Hamish.

Without a second to loose they sped off to the crime scene and found that the men had searched the house (one of Irene's she was living at, at the time) and found where the killer entered. There was a piece of a lock picking kit by the back door which had still been open when they arrived. The evidence was bagged and Sherlock had it sent to Lestrade's team for analysis, and supervised by one of Mycroft's men. It was the only way he could feel certain about the results. John and Sherlock had made their way into the bedroom with hesitance. The stench of death was thick in the air and was the only thing the permeated the smell of blood that clung to the air.

The bedroom where the murder had happened was in absolute ruin. Everything had been torn apart or broken, including Irene. John could hardly stand to look at her for the urge to become sick was so strong. He clasped Sherlock's arm and held him back from the sight and tried to offer some support. Sherlock Holmes was not an easily shaken man but the sight of this shook him to the core. This psychopath hadn't let a single part of her body unharmed, other than the face. Whoever it was, was making a statement, that this was in fact Irene Adler and no other, this death was not faked. Of course they would be sure to have Molly run the autopsy and have some men on hand to help her supervise all testing.

The Woman's body had been carved up and mutilated so horribly John could not imagine she lived long through it. He overviewed the body and could see that she'd died before she bled out from all of the cuts along her body, but not before the killer opened up her stomach and pulled quite a bit out. The sight of it made him sick and with a bit of searching they found her innards inside the large walk in closet. All of the clothes had been removed, for the time being their location was unknown, but that had left a significant amount of open wall. Hearts had been drawn in Irene's blood on every available surface and in the center of it all was the largest of them. Inside the large heart the word 'family' had been spelled out using the intestines and John could see Sherlock trembling.

John took the man out of the house for a breather and held him until the shaking was not so severe. Once they'd collected themselves Sherlock and he took a trip down to see Lestrade. The lock picking tool they'd found carried an almost perfect print, one of a well-known gang member who had recently been released from prison. They were notorious for making hits, though none as violent as the one from the night before. The only explanation could be that they were attempting to cover it up as a crime of passion, but Sherlock had an odd feeling about the whole case. Why was their picture there, why was someone following them? It was troubling to say the least and the whole thing had John feeling like the world was tilting on its axis. If this person were to find Hamish… he couldn't even finish that thought.

Around the time Hamish was stepping onto stage his fathers were with Lestrade and his men, along with Mycroft's team, breaking down the doors to a known hide out for the gang. Once inside the majority of people were caught before fleeing and arrested on criminally suspicious charges. Sherlock searched and interviewed each one, including the man who'd left a print once they returned to the station. From what they could tell none of them seemed guilty, which was the oddest thing of all. The only clue left behind was that lock pick, and that led them to the gang. Otherwise the entire house was clean and it was putting Sherlock on edge. Worse, when they exited the interrogation room and turned their phones back on Mycroft had called twelve times.

His men who had been following Hamish went missing, and Hamish had gotten into a black car. John's blood went cold and he could have sworn his heart stopped. Lestrade had to hold him so he didn't fall and Sherlock was shouting at the top of his lungs. After it sunk in and the shock dissipated enough and John felt an overwhelming need to see his son. Mycroft had called them as soon as he had landed and they met so they could review the CCTV footage. The plates on the car were conveniently blocked and that left them with nothing. John cursed himself for trusting some team of men to guard his son from afar instead of going to him himself. They went to the scene and found his painting broken a few yards away. It took every fiber of the doctor's being to not break down as the search became more and more fruitless. The trail was growing cold already with there being so little information. The entire city's system of CCTV cameras blacked out about two minutes after Hamish entered the car and there was no telling where they could be by now.

All John could think about was his son alone with the murderer. His body was trembling violently, and nothing anyone said could calm him. Even Sherlock's words fell flat to the fear building inside of him. Once it was about one in the morning Lestrade sent them home to try and collect themselves for a moment, see if perhaps Hamish contacted Mrs. Hudson or maybe even called the house. When they arrived home and entered the flat however, they were met with a scene John was certain would enter his list of unforgettable moments.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 5**

John went very still, and for a brief moment, considered collapsing. However his body was in complete disagreement as it instead launched itself forward to embrace his son who was standing in the living room and appeared to be just fine. He held onto him very tightly and fought back tears of relief. All the nightmares he'd been having of where his son might be were no more as they dissolved at the sight of Hamish standing right where he should be. He was home and in his arms and he vaguely registered Sherlock moving closer to hug them both when he stopped suddenly. The jerky movement caught John's attention immediately and he looked up through watery eyes to see his husband staring at something in the flat. He followed the gaze and found that the something he was staring at was in fact a someone. A young girl, no more than sixteen was standing up right to the left of the room and viewing the proceedings with mild interest.

"Who are you?"

Sherlock asked sharply as he placed himself between the girl and his family.

"Just a friend."

She replied innocently and smiled up at the man. After a moment of silence Hamish pushed himself away from his dad. John looked at his son in confusion and couldn't fight the hurt he felt when he saw how angry the boy was.

"She is a girl from my school, a new student. She is also the one who gave me a ride home while I was walking in the rain since no one was at attendance for the art show on my behalf."

Hamish spat out viciously and moved closer to his new friend. John realized with sudden clarity that in all the chaos Hamish had been left alone. With Mycroft's men being taken out there would have been no one on hand to take him home. John felt a wave of guilt engulf him, he looked to his husband who looked to be less affected but he knew better.

"What is your name girl?"

Sherlock demanded as he turned away from their son and towards her. He loomed over her almost threateningly, as though he viewed her as potentially dangerous. John supposed anything was possible, but he doubted the girl was up to anything.

"Reta."

She supplied smoothly and extended one hand out in introduction. Sherlock ignored the offered hand in favor of moving closer to inspect her better.

"Leave her alone!"

Hamish shouted out and practically threw himself between the girl and his father.

"She rescued me from the wretched rain after you abandoned me. You should be thanking her, not deducing her! I've lost enough friends with your odd behavior; I won't have you running her out. She's nice and she's smart, much smarter than the other kids. Besides that she's new, perhaps if I'm lucky she will remain with me long enough to tolerate you."

Hamish scathed and Sherlock flinched at his words. It was true that Sherlock could be a bit harsh when it came to children, the only acceptation being Hamish on occasion. John walked forward and placed a supportive hand on his husband's lower back and looked his son directly in the eyes.

"That is no way to speak to your father young man. Listen, of course we are grateful she gave you a ride home, and it is lovely that you made a new friend, but you must understand that we did not intend to miss the art show. There was a very unfortunate… happening the night before. A friend of your father's was murdered. It was very important that we investigate. I wish that it was not the case but it couldn't be helped. I hate that we missed the show, but there will be others I'm sure, we can go to the next."

John tried to reason with the boy, trying to explain. He didn't want to speak of the picture or the missing men though. It wouldn't do any good to worry Hamish over such matters.

"There won't be a next one! I hated it; the whole thing was a waste of time. Besides, you would only come if it was convenient. That's how it always is; all you care about are those cases. The only way I could ensure your attendance was if I had myself murdered at the show! Maybe then you would come, you could deduce how I'd won first prize before being strangled to death!"

Hamish shouted and the words hit his fathers like a ton of bricks. Considering how only minutes before they thought that Hamish had been kidnapped by some psychopath it seemed far too personal. Sherlock looked much too pale and John was sure he didn't look much better. Hamish huffed out an aggravated breath before storming up to his bedroom. The girl, Reta, watched him curiously for a moment as the door slammed shut and then turned to look back at the two men in front of her. John apologized and showed her out, sure to watch as she got into her car. When he came back up into the living room Sherlock hadn't moved and it worried the doctor.

"Love? Are you alright?"

He asked hesitantly as he placed a hand on a lean shoulder.

"He's wrong."

Sherlock whispered after a moment and John moved in closer so as to hear the man better.

"Wrong about what?"

He asked carefully and observed his husband's devastated features.

"If he had been… if Hamish were killed, I couldn't do it."

Sherlock muttered and his eyes were very far away as he spoke. John placed his free hand on the detective's cheek and looked up into the far off stare.

"He wasn't though. He is fine. He's hurt and angry, but he is ok. I will speak with him once he's had a chance to calm down. You know how he gets; he's a bit of a hot head."

John reassured as he made circular motions with the thumb on the taller man's cheek.

"But he could have been, I was almost positive he had been taken by the murderer. It all fit so well, I could see it playing out in my mind. Our son… I knew, I knew if it happened I couldn't do it. I wouldn't have been able to look at him, to-to _deduce_ our son's cold lifeless body. I just, I _couldn't_."

Sherlock admitted shakily as he searched John's face for something… forgiveness perhaps? John pulled the detective close for a tight hug and kissed the man's marble neck.

"He's ok now; we don't have to worry about it. You won't have to worry about that, we won't let that happen."

John said carefully into the crook of his husband's neck. His words caught a bit in his throat as he considered that the idea of finding their son dead had also crossed his mind. That he knew there was no way he could have looked at that small body and been analytical. He held tighter to Sherlock and pushed the thought from his mind. The taller man brought his arms up to pull John closer to him and that is how they stood for a long time. Just soaking in the feel of each other. Letting their minds relax and their breath go even while their son sat in his room stewing over the nights events. This wouldn't be the end though, not by a long shot.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 6**

"They had the usual excuses, nothing that I haven't heard before you know. But, it was their friend, and it's important to get killers off the street… I don't know, yeah I'm still upset, but not really at them, just that it happened I suppose."

Hamish explained to Reta as she sat opposite to him during their lunch hour. Their table was small but had enough room for two more if they so pleased, which they did not. Reta was going on her second day but it was the first they'd seen of each other since the art show. So the girl had yet to meet anyone else she cared to speak with and Hamish had never been very fond of most of his classmates. It wasn't that he didn't have friends, he wasn't antisocial like his father, but a lot of the students were from wealthy families and were generally very posh. Hamish wasn't one to waste his time on people who worried more about what they were wearing than what was happening around them. His friends were mostly the intelligent crowd, though he had a few friends on the football team. None of them knew Reta though, and she didn't seem like she wanted them to, so he chose a more private space for lunch that day. She was very curious about what happened after she had left, and Hamish felt he owed her an explanation after storming off and leaving her with his parents.

"You're very forgiving."

Reta commented off handedly as she went to take a bite of her salad. Hamish stared at her while she chewed for a moment as he considered that. He had never thought himself to be overly forgiving, that was more of his dad's strong suit. In fact he was scolded frequently by the man that he was hot headed and could at times be very selfish. Not that he meant to be, it was just a part of who he was, more than likely something learned by his equally selfish and hot headed father. At any rate, he'd never been told he was very forgiving, it seemed odd to hear.

"You think so?"

The boy asked curiously as he bit into his own sandwich.

"Well, sure. If I were you I'd still be raving mad."

Reta supplied simply as she set down her fork and observed the boy.

"Really… why?"

Hamish questioned carefully as he watched the girl. He wasn't sure he understood where she was coming from. The boy was used to being told he was taking things too far, or that he was taking something too seriously. Normally he would argue otherwise until his last breath, until he was convinced that he had been wrong. Hamish was a stubborn boy, and would not admit defeat until he was absolutely positive of it. However he was a clever boy, and understood the logic behind his parent's argument, even in the heat of a moment. He'd had time to cool down now and was surprised to hear that someone else was taking his side, he wasn't sure on what grounds she had based such an argument.

"Well, people die, they do every day. Both my mother and father had to die, in fact all of my family did other than my grandmother, and one day she will die as well. It is inevitable that your father's friend would have died at some point. Granted murder is abrupt for most people, but chasing after the killer that night wouldn't have changed anything, his friend is going to be dead whether they catch the person or persons that did it. However, missing your art show was something he could have avoided. That friend of his was dead, no changing that, attending your art show… well I know which I would have chosen."

Reta clarified as she sipped on her milk. Hamish thought a moment on what she had said and figured that she may have a point. His father always had a way of making things sound so logical though, when his parent's had spoken with him about it later that night they'd been so convincing. Perhaps they had only led him to believe they were in the right. After all, it wasn't like either of them to admit fault.

"Perhaps you're right… but there's nothing to be done about it now, they missed it, there is no going back. Besides, I always considered painting more of a hobby, it clears my mind."

Hamish admitted. If he were still worked up about the art show he might have become angry, but it was more of a dull ache by then and he didn't feel the need to expend energy on it.

"Hmm, my uncle felt that way about shooting. He used to go out to the firing range to clear his mind… you should try it; you look like you'd be good at it. I go on Saturdays sometimes; if you like you could join me."

Reta offered pleasantly with a demure smile that brought a faint blush to Hamish's cheeks. He'd been invited out by girl's before, but none that had been older than him or nearly as clever as Reta.

"Sure, I'd like that."

Hamish replied with a bright smile and ducked his face so that she wouldn't see just how pleased he was. They ate and conversed pleasantly for the rest of their lunch hour and Hamish wondered if this is how his dad felt when he met his father.


	7. Chapter 7

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 7**

John wasn't the type who was overly nervous about his child, but Hamish's behavior of late was making him a bit tense. Hamish could be temperamental, even a bit stubborn, but he was normally a very genial kid. For the past two weeks he'd been very irritated and easily frustrated with both his dads. John thought at first it must have been the art show, but something told him that there was more. Hamish didn't linger in hurt feeling too long, not unless he felt he had a proper case to make, and if he had he would have stated it by then. No, something was odd about this and it was making the doctor feel a bit skittish even. Hamish was a marvelous and brilliant boy much like Sherlock, but like John was bound to his own need to maintain a sort of habitual existence. Both Hamish and John enjoyed a quiet breakfast and Hamish was prone to paint in the afternoons after finishing his school work until dinner, after dinner he would spend a good deal of time on the computer before going to bed for the night. Recently that had not been happening, he was painting all the time, John hardly saw any school work being done, and when he'd asked Hamish had blown his top.

As John made his tea that Saturday morning he wondered what might have gotten into his son. Whatever it was he hoped this play date with that Reta girl would help. Hamish didn't have as many friends as John had in school, and that concerned him at times, so he was glad to see a new one come along. Sherlock had his suspicions about her, said something was 'off', but John knew by now that his husband was always displeased with their son's friends. So he paid that little mind as he finished stirring milk into his tea.

He brought a mug over to Sherlock as well as he sat in the living room staring at the large map in front of him. The detective had been working tirelessly on Irene's murder case since that night and John could do little to stop him. The threat against their family was enough for him to allow a few more skipped dinners than he'd normally, but he still insisted on constant Hydration. He handed the consumed man his mug which he accepted absently and took a small sip. John wished there was more that he could do, but in the end it was Sherlock who was the genius. One service he did provide was listening to anything and everything the man had to say.

"This killer, she's a clever one, she's been playing me."

Sherlock growled from his seat and took a large gulp of tea before pointing towards the map of London Sherlock had pinned to a rolling board, much like one you might find in a primary school. John looked to it and saw numerous pieces of string pinned to several locations along with scraps of newspaper clippings on the case.

"Every clue I find is planted in some way. She knows how I think, she knows what conclusions I will come to. With every step I take I fall deeper into her trap and she is laughing at me I just know it! You can tell, just by looking at that map she's been making a fool of me from the very beginning. I'm not sure if I have a single clue that's reputable."

The detective raged on, abandoning his cup of tea for the time being to wave his hands at the board in frustration.

"Follow the lines John! Look at the locations of all the raids we've had at potential spots the killer might be located. They form the shape of a heart John! A heart! Like the numerous ones that had been drawn all over the bedroom, like the one that was ripped out of Irene!"

Sherlock continued as he picked up speed and began fiddling his fingers nervously. John shuddered as he recalled when they'd figured out that little tid-bit. Whoever had killed the woman, it was personal. The doctor stood from his chair and took a seat next to his rattled husband and wrapped an arm around him.

"You will figure it out, you always do."

John said soothingly as he rubbed circles into the man's arm.

"But when John? WHEN? After she's killed Hamish and you? No, the numbers of photographs I've found at the scenes are far too alarming for me to simply accept that I will simply 'figure this out'. I need to do it time!"

Sherlock shouted and turned to grasp at John's shoulders, force the smaller man to look him directly in the eyes. John could see the fear there, the overwhelming need to find this killer, to protect his family. Sherlock was running himself ragged with both lack of proper care and bad nerves.

"Sherlock, please, listen to me. That won't happen. Mycroft has a team watching the flat twenty four-seven, and at least two people following us at all times. You will catch this person before anything comes near us."

John tried to reassure his husband, but he was scared what this killer might do as well, more for Hamish's sake than his own. The majority of the pictures had been of the three of them, but the last two had been of just John and Hamish. When Sherlock had found the first one he had spent the entire night sitting outside of Hamish's door while he slept and demanded that John be there as he did so. John hadn't slept that night at all, just leaned into Sherlock to remind him he was still there.

"Mycroft's people have gone missing before. They did the night of the art show and we didn't find them for another week. They'd been kidnapped, tortured, and thrown into the Thames!"

Sherlock argued as his grip tightened on John's shoulders. John pried the large hands off of himself and held them to his chest as he searched the detective's face.

"I know you won't let anything happen to our family. I know that I won't let anything happen to our family either. Just focus on that, all we can do is keep an eye out and continue working the case. Have you called the most recent location about who might have taken a photo of us?"

John inquired calmly, hoping that the question might serve as a distraction as well. They had been attempting to determine the exact time and place of each photograph and see if there was any way to track down who was taking the pictures through nearby shop keepers or workers and possibly CCTV cameras. There had been no luck so far, but it was worth a shot.

"Yes, there was a CCTV camera in the area owned by the corner store across from the street. I already made contact with the owner and he has promised me a copy of the tape. Though, I might have noticed the killer had you and Hamish made it known to me you were leaving the flat."

Sherlock answered with a bit of malice in his voice.

"You'd finally fallen asleep; we weren't going to wake you. And seeing as some of us eat around here we had to get the shopping done. Anyway, that's good. Would you like me to stop by and pick up the tape when I run out to grab the milk later?"

John questioned as he slowly lowered his husband's hands.

"Of course. I will come with you."

"No, you will stay right here and take a kip."

"John. This is not up to debate, you let Hamish go out against my wishes to provide him with 'normalcy' and had two extra men leave with him to be safe. That leaves one team that watches the flat along with one man for each of us. If you leave only one man will follow you John. That's not a risk I'd like to take."

"Sherlock, we've had no reason to believe that anything is going to escalate from anything more than picture taking. Besides, one man is more than enough. I was a soldier remember, I can handle myself. You need to rest, and it's only a quick run, I'll be back before you know it."

There was a long stretch of silence between them before Sherlock slumped and looked up at John pitifully.

"Promise me you will be careful, you must promise it."

Sherlock pleaded and clasped his fingers around John's hands where they still lay between them on the sofa.

"I promise I will practice the upmost care as I got to the shop. Don't worry love, there is nothing to fear."

John affirmed as he leaned forward to place a delicate kiss upon his husband's lips. Sherlock moved forward to apply a more firm pressure behind it and coiled his fingers around John's even more so.

"See that you do."

Sherlock breathed out as they parted.


	8. Chapter 8

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 8**

There are few things in this world that can bring Sherlock Holmes to his knees. So few that he could count them on one hand and be absolutely positive that those were the only ones. He would be wrong however. Because none of the things on his list included a text message, something so simple, something that he received daily and with extreme frequency. But when he reached to the coffee table to retrieve the chiming phone, his heart stopped. An unknown number, an unknown person, an unknown_ threat_. There was no message, no warning, nothing that in any other context would conjure anything more than an extreme case of confusion. There was only a picture, a very simple picture, one that had been taken precisely two seconds before from just an arms lengths away, and was of John Watson.

* * *

Hamish had been looking forward to seeing Reta at the firing range for a number of reasons, one of them being to get away from his fathers. Their presence had become something of an annoyance and aggravation as of late. More specifically, they had become aggravating when Reta propositioned a little dare. She had challenged him that everybody lied, that everyone had secrets, especially family, more especially parents. She told him it was in their nature to lie, that they didn't like to communicate with children, children were not seen as equals and there for not given the same respect. Hamish disagreed of course, his fathers had their faults but they treated him respectfully, they always listened to his opinions, even if they disagreed. But she'd dared him, she'd challenged his stance. Reta had dared him to look them up, to look them up and see if there was anything they might have hidden from him. He'd expected a few cases that weren't worth the time explaining, or that were a bit too graphic, but not anything close to what he'd found. That his father, the great Sherlock Holmes, had faked his death. He'd pretended to commit suicide when rumors were going about that he was a fake.

That wasn't the worst of it though. What was worse was when he saw the related articles of his father's return, which had been over a year after his birth. That meant his birth was not what his parents had led him to believe, there was no way that he had been their baby from the beginning, his dad would have thought his father was dead. So why was he born? There were two possibilities that he deemed the most likely, and he didn't like either of them. One was that his dad had been in a relationship with his mother that ended shortly after his father's return. The other was that he was the product of some massive mistake. He didn't have the resources to look into it himself and he certainly wasn't going to ask his parents.

Reta didn't act smug when he told her, but she wasn't surprised either. She explained that it was the nature of people, to be liars, to try and make things seem better than they are. Reta offered to find more if Hamish so pleased, which he did, but it came at a price. Hamish had first assumed she would want money, however what she wanted were paintings. Nothing specific, just things that had been painted by Hamish. He was confused but flattered and did as she said. He'd been spending more time painting anyway to clear his mind of his frustration so it wasn't an inconvenience.

However while he was curious to see what she dug up, he was anxious as well. Part of him wanted to pretend the entire thing had never happened, but that wasn't his way. He needed to know, he couldn't live his life hiding from the truth. When he reached the firing range Reta was already getting ready to fire off a few rounds and he wondered if she was planning on waiting until afterwards. Perhaps she wanted to see the painting first; he had left it inside her house (which was really manor much like his uncle's) so that would mean waiting quite some time. The boy made his way across the large expanse of lawn until he reached the firing range. He was careful not to startle her as she had a gun in her hand and he was very aware of the dangers that guns held. Hamish announced himself from a ways away and she turned and waved.

"Hello Reta… where's the instructor?"

Hamish asked as he looked around the vacant place.

"You're looking at her. I've done this many times before and from a young age; I'm as skilled as any instructor you'll find around here."

Reta answered plainly as she inspected the hand gun in her grasp. Hamish eyed it nervously and chewed on his bottom lip.

"Is that… allowed? Don't you need a certificate for that sort of thing?"

Hamish questioned anxiously. Reta looked away from to gun to smile at him deviously.

"Worried about breaking a few rules now are we? What a shame. And here I thought we were going to have some fun."

The girl replied in a conniving tone and Hamish bristled at the accusation.

"I'm not worried! I was simply… curious. I don't mind if you don't, I just wasn't entirely certain of your skill is all. Perhaps you should prove this self-professed talent of yours."

Hamish retorted and Reta looked as though she might have broken out into a cackle.

"If you insist."

Reta purred as she handed Hamish a pair of ear plugs. She fired the gun three times at their targets, which were three cardboard figures that seemed to have certain areas colored in various shades of red, yellow, and blue. She hit the first two in more orange-ish areas but the last in a red. She seemed rather proud about that and turned to grin at the boy.

"Is that… good?"

Hamish asked, uncertain of what exactly the rules of this were. She rolled her eyes and laughed a but at his expense and then turned to point at one of the targets.

"The deep red means it's a kill shot, the yellows and oranges are varying levels of damage to the human body, and the blue means that you've done hardly anything at all. So of course the object is to hit as much red as possible to kill your opponent."

Reta explained monotonously and Hamish studied the targets for a moment. It seemed that there were far more yellow and orange areas than anything else, and blue was hardly there. He wondered if it might make more sense to have a person try to shoot the smaller blue spots. However he said nothing of it to Reta as he didn't want to sound foolish.

"Here. Why don't you have a go at it?"

She offered and handed the gun over to the boy. He was nervous as he felt the weight of the gun in his hand but did his best not to show it. Reta showed him the proper stance and how to aim, and she explained the mechanics of the device while she stood very near him. Hamish tried very hard to concentrate on what she was saying rather than their proximity but it seemed his hormones were acting up again and would have none of it. When he did fire he managed to control his body and not be pushed back by the recoil and didn't flinch at the noise. He shot two red spots and one yellow, Reta glowed with pride and placed a quick kiss on his cheek. Hamish would deny it if asked but he blushed a very deep red because of it.

They were beginning to challenge each other when his uncle's men came running towards him and he wondered if they'd told his fathers about the gun. Reta frowned deeply at their approach but she didn't say anything as they watched them grow closer. Hamish apologized before walking to meet them on the lawn.

"You need to come with us Mr. Watson, there's been an event."

The taller burlier brunette reported and Hamish observed them all for a moment.

"What do you mean 'an event'? What's happened?"

"You're dad… he's in the hospital, he was mugged on his way home from shopping."

* * *

Sherlock paced the floor as he was consumed with concern. John had been in for a half hour now and Hamish was still on his way. He wanted to see his son, here, safe with him. He also wanted those wretched doctors to hurry up because he'd waited far too long to see John. John who had been such an idiot as to think leaving the house alone was a good idea. Sherlock had known it wasn't, he had _known_! He should have fought harder to keep John home, to keep _this_ from happening. It was too late now though and all he could do was wait.

He'd been the first on the scene, he'd run out the moment he received the text message. Once he'd found John he called an ambulance then gone straight to assessing all of the damage. John was unconscious from a blow to the head, but he was losing blood quickly from deep cuts in his gut that formed the shape of a heart. Sherlock had prided himself at one time that he was able to keep his head in such situations, that he didn't let sentiment cloud his judgment, but that had been before he realized his love for John. With John lying in the cold ally, slowly letting his life flow out of him, Sherlock panicked. He began applying pressure with his jacket and yelling at John to wake up. If he were to look back at it he might call the whole display highly embarrassing, thought that would be if he could delete the image of John dying from the memory.

When the ambulance had finally arrived John had just ceased breathing and Sherlock was going out of his mind. He couldn't stop blabbering to John as the paramedics revived him. Telling the doctor how much he was loved, how he was needed, how he couldn't leave. The medics ignored him but he hoped John had not. He did begin breathing again and at that Sherlock had sobbed properly as a momentary bout of relief overtook him. Once in the hospital he was told to sit in the accursed waiting area where he quickly dialed Mycroft's people to fetch his son. There was no sign of the man who had followed John, not that he expected there to be.

As the minutes ticked by the only thing the detective could think about was that they couldn't stay any longer. Baker Street was not safe; it hadn't been for some time he imagined. Hopefully the one good thing out of this experience would be that John would actually agree with him that it was time to leave. Just until the killer was caught, until it was safe. He couldn't risk another attack, not on John, not on Hamish. Sherlock wasn't sure he'd survive another; his heart already felt like it had been put through a blender. He slumped into a chair and stared at the clock in front of him as he considered it. No, he would not survive another attack; he was not made to endure such things.

His only hope was that this killer wasn't as clever as she thought, because he needed to catch her. She had attacked his husband, his love, his _heart_, and he could not stand for that. He needed to catch her and make her pay for what she'd done. They would leave for some place safe soon, and then he could solve the case without putting Hamish and John in harm's way. Yes, there was no way his plan could fail.


	9. Chapter 9

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 9**

**PENIS!**

**Now that I have your attention… Two announcements for you guys. Just two quick things, then you can go on and read the latest development.**

**One of the reasons (other than my spectacularly broken laptop) that chapters in this and the last story have been later is that my friends asked me to help them make biographies for their Sherlock characters in a crossover rp they've made. I couldn't resist so now I am one of the admins (and characters!) in the rp. I urge you all to go at least check it out and see if you might want to apply. We're still waiting on applications. It's 221b - - rp at tumblr.**

**I'm thinking that after this story I will be accepting requests. I won't write everything (Well that depends on how many people even send any in lol) but I will try to do most. Probably they won't all be multi-chaptered like this or my others, but at least a lengthy one shot. I've received a few already in the past but I'd been working on the pieces I've already done. I know I've gotten a lot for a role reversal for Runaway Home, and I'm willing to do that, but it be nice if someone had a more specific plot for that other than young Sherlock. The more specific the better, that way you get what you want and I can cure my writers block!**

**Back to your regularly scheduled chapter, thank you for reading.**

If Sherlock had been any more wound up he might have exploded quite literally in the middle of the hospital room. John had only been awake for approximately thirty minutes and the detective had spent the last twenty wearing a hole into the hospital room floor. No one dared stop him, and John was in no condition to try. Hamish sat by his bed side watching his father's actions pensively with one hand clutched to the bed rail. Too proud to reach for his dad's hand, but too frightened to have so much distance between them. John smiled at the boy before turning back to his crazed detective.

He knew if the roles had been reversed he'd be having a similar response. Well, a similar response in that he would be freaking out, not that he would have thrown things at the nurse who tried to send Hamish and him home five minutes ago. John wasn't so sure he'd have acted any differently than Sherlock had in regards to his first waking. They were both very attached to each other even after all the years they'd spent arguing over baby bottles and frozen heads. Sherlock hadn't cried, but it was a very near thing from what he could tell. The man's eyes were red, so he must have broken down at some point (probably when he'd found him) but he remained relatively put together in the presence of their son. There had been lots of kissing (much to Hamish's displeasure) and a Sherlock questioned him relentlessly about everything that he felt or had seen before and during the attack. They gave a description and all deductions to Lestrade and Mycroft's men before Sherlock had started up his pacing about the room.

John let a wary sigh and wondered just when his husband would calm down enough to sit down again and have a proper discussion about what was to happen next. He could tell from the man's muttering that he was formulating a plan, but he'd honestly like to be a part of the decision. Sherlock was running his hands through his hair the way he always did when he became flustered. Obviously there was no getting through to him while he was in such a state so the blonde turned his attentions back to his son. Hamish was licking his lips as John did when he was thinking and the sight made John smile fondly at the boy. His son had mimicked much of Sherlock's behavior out of idolatry, but there were a few distinctly John traits inside of him that always managed to bring a smile to his face. He could see that Hamish had been shaken by the day's events and he hated to see him in such a state.

"Hey, you ok mate?"

John questioned softly as he observed his distressed son. He was still young, a boy, only thirteen. His features were soft and that of a child, though he could see the beginnings of what would be a stronger jaw. He was pale, not so much as Sherlock, and small as well. Not at all like John had been at his age; though Hamish did possess many of his features, especially in the face. However when Hamish's gaze dragged it's self away from his father and to his injured dad. When John looked at those blue orbs that were nearly identical to his own Hamish suddenly appeared much older. There was something in the way he looked that made John's chest grow tight. The boy looked strained, as if he had been worn out over a life time. When Hamish did answer his eyes were trained on his dad's wrap.

"I'm not the one who was _stabbed_ dad."

Hamish answered roughly and refused to look away from the injury hidden underneath the bandages. John reached out to use his index finger and raise his son's chin so they were finally looking face to face.

"I'm fine, nothing to worry about."

John soothed as he clasped his hand over the one Hamish was gripping the bed rail with.

"Fine? _Fine_? You cannot lie there in that bed with that-that _thing_ on your stomach and say you're fine!"

Sherlock shouted at the top of his lungs as he turned and attempted to pin John in place with his glare. The ex-soldier would have none of that though and sat up further in the bed as an act of defiance.

"What should I do then? Pace about the floor and scream at the top of my lungs in front of our son?"

John challenged and pinned the detective with a glare of his own. Sherlock slammed his jaw shut and stared for a moment, his gaze moving between John and Hamish at infrequent intervals. Finally, after an eternity of moments the taller man slumped and made his way over to the bed. He sat at the foot of it and rested his hand on John's knee.

"No, I suppose that is not what is best."

Sherlock consented and hung his head as John appraised him. The doctor placed his free hand on top of his husband, earning him a weak smile.

"We all have our moments."

John sighed as he looked down at the mop of brown curls. John could feel his son's grasp on the bed rail tighten immensely and he looked over to the boy in alarm.

"How can you say that? This isn't a moment for him; he's like this all the time! And worse, he's acting like this is your fault or something, like you could have prevented it! That's bullocks! You know as well as I do that the likelihood that this was a random attack is highly improbable, whether you'd like to admit it or not. This happened because he chases after murderers for a living and doesn't bother to act even remotely careful about it. It's not like you're making enemies at the clinic, or receiving threats in the mail!"

Hamish growled at his father with contempt and John could hardly conceal his gasp. Sherlock looked up with something like horror to meet his son's hateful stare.

"Hamish! You will speak to your father with respect! Today has been rough on all of us; there is no one to blame but the man who did this. Now please, can we all just calm down and try to be reasonable?"

John reprimanded and tightened his hold on both of their hands. Sherlock's were still glazed over, somewhere far away, but he nodded all the same. Hamish however ripped his hand away and turned away quickly so that he was glaring at the floor.

"He's not my father."

Hamish declared quietly and John's breath caught in his throat when he heard the malice in his young son's voice.

"Why would you say that, of course he is."

John whispered harshly as he tried to pull on his son's shoulder to turn him back around. Hamish resisted and shrugged the hand off.

"No, I saw that article. He pretended to be dead. He wasn't even around when I was born. You two didn't plan on me, you didn't decide you wanted to have a baby. You did dad, with some lady, and then he showed up. If he hadn't left, you can't honestly say that he would have chosen what happened. I wouldn't be here if were up to him."

Hamish argued harshly and Sherlock looked as though the boy had physically struck him.

"Hamish, you can't mean that. Your father loves you."

John retorted forcefully.

"Because he has to, he didn't have any other choice if he wanted to be with you."

Hamish responded bitterly and finally turned to look at his father with red rimmed eyes, glossy and threatening to spill over any moment.

"That's not true. I love you, I always have. You couldn't possibly believe that something like your biological background would have any effect on that? You're clever and curious, just like your father and I, you fit into our lives perfectly and I couldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock insisted as he too fought back a powerful surge of emotion. Hamish sniffed wetly and turned away once again to clear his throat.

"Whatever."

The boy croaked and John's heart ached at the scene. He'd never intended for his son to find out in such a manner, he wanted to wait when he could properly explain, when Hamish would understand. Now it was too late, and it felt as though everything was falling apart at once.

"Hamish, please, understand that your father loves you. We both love you. We had our reasons for hiding the truth. We can explain all of that later; right now I'm far too exhausted, I'm sure you both are too."

John replied evenly and Hamish looked to him a bit guiltily. Sherlock nodded and placed a kiss to the doctor's hand.

"Alright dad."

Hamish relented sheepishly and allowed his dad to place a kiss on the top of his head. Even with the intensity of the fight over, John could sense that this was only the beginning. Hamish had just opened Pandora's box, the more he searched into their past, the more he would know. John wasn't sure how much the boy could handle at his age, and with everything going on, he wasn't sure he could handle it either.


	10. Chapter 10

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 10**

**So sorry for the wait! Don't kill me! Check out the rp! That is all!**

Hamish Watson-Holmes was no fool, and (at least in his own eyes) was no child. One of the greatest offenses you could possibly commit in his eyes would be to think him too young or too naïve to understand something. Matters only got worse if you also happened to be one of his fathers. He knew better than to think his dad was attacked randomly, or that some random occurrence would inspire his father to fly them away to some remote place his uncle owned during the middle of the school term. However, if you're clever like Hamish, then your suspicions will only increase when your intended plane to take you on your supposed vacation is blown up before you or any of the other passengers can board.

His father was in such frenzy over the situation and they spoke very little in those days. His dad tried to comfort him, tried to explain it away to set his mind at ease. It only served to anger the boy further. He did not like being left in the dark, especially if whatever was happening had put his dad's life at risk. It seemed absolutely ridiculous to him that they not fill him in, he was certain that he could help if they just let him.

Despite the elaborate security systems in place it was relatively easy for Hamish to escape every now and again, so long as he wasn't gone for too long. His uncle's summer home was large and it was conceivable that he spend hours at a time out of sight from his parents. Not that they were likely to notice. His dad was busy helping his father or sleeping off his injuries and his father… well that was something of a spectacle. His father was in rare form, which was saying something given how eccentric he could be. He was constantly working on this case that Hamish was not allowed to know of, and when he wasn't wrapped up in that he was ranting about his brother's lack of security, or acting as though his husband was about to break in half, or (when they were near enough) sending Hamish pained looks. Even given his own frustration with his father at the time, those looks did send pangs of guilt through him. His stubborn nature made apology impossible, but he did long to take back what he'd said at the hospital.

However the boy was on route to visit Reta while he considered the past three weeks and wondered what his father would say when he found out. And he would find out. Hamish had no illusion of that. When one lives with a great detective such as Sherlock Holmes they realize that it is only a matter of time before you're discovered. If he could manage not to get caught until this case blew over then he was sure that he'd be fine. Reta said it was unlikely they'd discover him while they were so distraught, and she encouraged him to make more frequent visits as the case continued. He blushed at the thought of her being so eager to be in his company and often found himself with sweaty palms as he knocked upon her door.

She had purchased him a bus pass to aid in their visits and he held the transport pass as though it were a vow. A promise that he would see her as often as his uncle's flawed security would allow. Fortunately that was rather common, which struck him as odd given that it hadn't been in the past, but it seemed that everything was becoming odd since the case began. Reta promised she'd explain today, she'd already explained a great many things, but she could see how badly Hamish wanted to know about what his father was up to and promised to explain on their next visit.

It was true that he wanted to know, he wanted to find some way to prove to his father that he could be just as brilliant, that he could help protect the family, but part of him was worried. While he was grateful Reta had informed him about some of the secrets his fathers had kept, he wasn't sure all of the information was what he wanted to hear. He'd been hurt when she'd revealed that his mother was now married, currently residing in America with her husband and three young children. His half siblings. He'd seen her once or twice before, and it was odd to think that his own mother had been so close and he hadn't even known it. Did she care? She seemed to like her new children. Perhaps it was because he'd been a mistake; she was going to give him away. Reta had found an adoption contract that had been discarded.

He pushed the unpleasant memories aside and remembered why he was there. He wanted to help. More than proving to his father that he was more than just a painter, he wanted to prove he was a fighter like his dad. That he was brave, that he was something worth mention. Intelligent like the famed detective and courageous like the tenacious army doctor. If he could prove to them his worth than perhaps they'd stop hiding things from him.

The boy gave a confident knock on the large doors of the manor and gripped his hands behind his back as his father so often did. It didn't take long before the butler saw him inside and he waited anxiously in the sitting room for Reta's arrival. She was never on hand, never waiting for him, this was something he'd come to expect. If he was honest he enjoyed the sense of chase. She invited him over often, but she was never desperate for his attention, he had to seek her out as well. When she came down the stairs with her chin up and eyes sharp he felt his heart pick up. She had to be the most brilliant and confident girl in all of Britain, she certainly looked it. When she entered the sitting room she smiled in her usual coy manner before taking a seat next to Hamish on the expensive looking sofa and ordering some tea from the butler. Once alone she smiled at the boy a second time.

"You're early, feeling a bit eager?"  
She asked mockingly and arched her eyebrow in the way that made Hamish shiver.

"Well, I leave at the best possible moment, I didn't want to risk being late as the alternative."

Hamish clarified and cleared his throat, hoping that it wasn't too obvious just how excited he was to see her again. She smiled knowingly and reached into her dress pocket for what looked like a newspaper clipping.

"I did as you asked; I looked into the case your father took the day I found you out in the rain."

Reta stated as she handed the boy the neatly folded article. Hamish looked down and skimmed the report. There had been a murder, very hush-hush; it involved a wealthy woman though. The government wasn't saying much, though that said a lot in itself.

"That's unfortunate, seems there wasn't much to find. Too bad, better luck next time I suppose."

Hamish sighed playfully as he tucked the newspaper clipping away in his trousers. Reta took her investigative skills very seriously, and while he doubted that was all she'd found, it was still amusing to upset her. She glared at him half-heartedly before letting out a scoff.

"Hardly. I know far much more than anyone should and less than I'd like-"

"Now _that's_ unusual."

"No interrupting… this case is a peculiar one indeed. I can see why your father is so caught up on it, the killer is quite clever."

Reta explained in her usual illusive manner.

"Oh really? More clever than my father? I highly doubt that."

Hamish remarked with a laugh. No one evaded his father long, not even the Moriarty fellow who seemed to have caused well… an awful lot of things if Hamish was honest.

"You shouldn't."

Reta replied darkly as she observed the boy with her cold black eyes. Hamish paused for a moment, lost in her stare before shifting uncomfortably.

"Why? My father is the greatest detective of all time, he's a genius."

Hamish said carefully as the butler served their tea and promptly left the room again.

"There seems to be a new genius on the horizon I'm afraid… it can't come as much of a surprise to you. Honestly there was bound to be someone who would come along."

Reta said smoothly as she reached for her tea and sipped it calmly. Hamish could feel himself go a bit pale. The thought of someone being smarter than his father frightened him and it explained the way his parents were acting. He wished very much that Reta was wrong.

"My father will catch whoever it is, he always does. Besides, killers want to be caught when they're clever, they like to boast."

Hamish said evenly, trying to convince Reta as much as himself and he nodded firmly to drive the thought deeper into his mind.

"This is no ordinary killer, she does not seek such trivial things, and if I am correct (which I always am) she is an artist in her own rights… like you."

Reta retorted and set her cup back down on the coffee table that looked like it belonged in a royal palace. Hamish wasn't sure how he felt about being compared to someone who had killed a woman, or about Reta calling it an art form, but her unique perspective intrigued him.

"Art? Well, I suppose death is a medium of sorts… are you sure we're not just dealing with some deranged psycho? Might be a bit soon to be claiming artistic talent just yet."

Hamish commented lightly, hoping to bring the topic off such morbid things.

"I'm not so sure, I think I have a pretty good idea of just how talented this woman is."

Reta said smoothly and pinned Hamish underneath her sharp stare and the boy swallowed heavily as he was trapped in her eyes. He had a feeling things were beginning to get very interesting, perhaps a bit too interesting for his own good.


	11. Chapter 11

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 11**

"What do you suppose this is?"

"I'm a bit busy in case you haven't noticed."

"Of course I've noticed, don't be so… _you_, for a moment. I'm just worried is all; I don't know what to make of this thing."

"It's a painting."

"Yes, thank you Sherlock, I'm not blind. I meant of _what_. What on earth is this a painting of?"

Sherlock finally turned all the way around from his current work station to see the small canvas John had carried into their temporary bedroom. He observed the artwork painted on it with a grimace. The case was far more important than discussing their son's recreational activities as far as he was concerned and he wanted to get back to work. However the painting did have a rather disturbing image depicted in it. There was a large bowl of fruit that had gone rotten and was placed in the center of a beautiful dining table. At the end of the table there was a woman who appeared to have died in the process of eating one of the apples.

"It would seem it's a painting of a woman who has been killed, most likely by consuming that fruit."

Sherlock stated plainly as his eyes studied the intricate brush work. He wasn't an expert when it came to paintings but he knew his son's usual level of skill, and it was clear that this painting had been done with special care.

"Yes but, well should we be concerned? I don't think I ever thought of such things when I was his age."

John continued as he flipped the painting so he could look at it once again. His face was scrunched up in the way it normally did when he was thinking too hard about something. If it wasn't distracting him from his work Sherlock might have gone over to kiss the spot between his husbands' furrowed brows.

"Well, Hamish is his own person; he expresses himself in unique ways. Perhaps it is also true that Hamish is far more exposed to death given my profession."

Sherlock commented thoughtfully as he considered the various reasons Hamish could have for producing such a piece.

"I suppose you're right, I just have a lot of nervous energy with no outlet to focus it on. These murders…"

John trailed off and looked to a particularly blank space of wall as his mind wandered towards the unpleasantness of their situation. He wasn't the only one; Sherlock couldn't seem to _stop_ thinking about this killer. She had moved from simply laying out fake clues to committing entirely new crimes. Each one carried her signature heart somewhere on the body. There hadn't been any new photographs but there wasn't an overabundance of comfort in that. The killer was clever, she would find them soon if she hadn't already and he didn't want to think about what she'd do once she knew how to bypass Mycroft's security.

The murders were different, nowhere near as personal as Irene's had been. However they were all done with express purpose. All the bodies were arranged carefully and the rooms in which they were found were always set up as well, every detail was thought through and executed with precision. They were messages, clues, Sherlock just couldn't figure out what they were clues to. Each crime scene was a stage in which the killer meant to tell some sort of story, and the story was not yet clear. He wracked his brain over the hidden meanings and messages for hours, but it never did any good.

He had never felt so lost before, he'd never felt so desperate. Murderers were normally so transparent, and it wasn't like them to trick him so well. What was worse was that he couldn't afford to be tricked now, not when this killer was targeting his family, his John. John who had accepted him, even when he'd faked his own death. The scar that lined his stomach was a constant reminder of how poorly he was protecting the one person who had taught him to love, who had brought him joys he'd never known existed outside of fairytales. The man who had fathered the only child who Sherlock imagined he could ever feel proud of for doing such simple tasks as learning to tie his shoes or write his name.

His heart ached at the thought of the young boy who had just a few weeks ago announced his anger towards his adoptive father. They had meant to tell him when he was older, when he would understand, but he supposed they should have known their son would find out on his own. Hamish was a clever boy, and resourceful, Sherlock often saw a lot of himself in him despite their lack of blood relation. However Hamish felt differently, he was angry, and he was angry at the detective. The memory of his son's accusations still made him wince, the emotional pain just as real as anything physical he'd experienced, if not worse. Hamish's words had a greater effect on him than he'd have thought they would, and even after all the time that had passed it was still hard not to feel hurt. He wanted to apologize, to find some way to make it better, but his mind was so preoccupied there was no way he could think of what to say. He was far more concerned with making sure there would be a time in the future to have a proper chat anyway.

The thought of Hamish, or John, being hurt haunted him now. Every moment felt like it could be his last chance to save them; that the killer was just waiting for the perfect moment to strike. He wasn't sure he could survive, if John or Hamish were-if he found them at one of the crime scenes. It was too much to bear, and he couldn't let it happen. He knew it was a matter of self-preservation. Did the killer know that too? Was it all just a game to keep this woman occupied, or was it a means to destroying her only worthy opponent? He wasn't sure, but it didn't really matter, so long as he stopped her before she could complete her master-plan.

"You're going to catch her."

John declared urgently, breaking the detective out of his thoughts. He observed his stubborn husband for a moment before nodding weakly.

"I mean it, I know you're worried, but she'll slip up. They always do. And when she does you will be all over it."

John continued and set the painting down as he strode over to Sherlock's side.

"You're awfully confident."

Sherlock scoffed and looked to the floor and felt his throat tighten as the wave of self-doubt crashed into him.

"Of course I am; I've been watching you work miracles since we were kids, this is no different."

John said evenly and cupped a hand on Sherlock's cheek to tilt the sitting man's head up so that his sharp grey eyes met determined blue ones.

"You're going to catch her, and then we're going to move back into 221b so that we can sleep in our own bed again."

John reaffirmed and Sherlock leaned into the touch of the man's calloused hand.

"I hope you're right."

"I know I am. Now come along, you need some sleep and I refuse to lie in this monstrous bed alone again."

John said with a fond smile that Sherlock couldn't help but mimic. The two of them tumbled into bed with gentle kisses and tender caresses and neither of them paid any mind to the foreign bed sheets or lumpy pillows. For a few hours they simply listened to each other's panting breath and furious heart beats.


	12. Chapter 12

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 12**

The large house his uncle had lent them was perfect for finding quiet places to think, or in Hamish's case, paint. He spent what time he had out of the presence of Reta painting her pictures. She had provided him with an adequate amount of information, he was making excellent headway as far as he was concerned, but he still brought her paintings regularly. Perhaps it was foolish for him to feel so hopelessly desperate for her praise, but he practically worshiped the ground she walked on. Reta wasn't a girl like any he'd seen before, or was likely to again; she opened his eyes to the unknown and questioned everything. There was something about her that made her both utterly captivating and oddly familiar. It was as though her mind worked as his did, always searching for more, wanting to know anything and everything; yet so stunningly different at the same time. Reta never worried about what others thought or about stepping on toes, she did as she pleased and said what she wanted. Not to mention she was terribly clever and wasn't afraid to flaunt it.

Reta was a lot of things, things which Hamish tended to study and attempt to decipher as he hid away within the large house. His mind was so consumed with thoughts of this mysterious girl that he did not hear his dad enter the smaller secondary library and walk up behind him. Not until the doctor decided to tap him on the shoulder after observing what the boy was painting for a few moments. Hamish turned around in a flash and was surprised to see the man at all. His parents had been busy with their case lately and the three of them rarely spoke, although his dad did insist they eat breakfast together every day. Other than the mandatory meal Hamish spent his days in solitude or with Reta, it was odd to see his dad in the library and he felt uneasy about the entire situation.

"What do you need?"

Hamish asked jumpily as he tried to position himself in front of the painting to obscure his dad's view.

"Just thought I'd pop in to have a chat is all, we haven't talked much since this whole thing started. I wanted to see how you were doing."

His dad answered innocently and let one of his trade mark smiles cross his face. It was the same smile that made his father stop yelling and his fifth year teacher decide that Hamish was in fact justified to hit the Donovan boy. Hamish had known the power of that smile for all his life and knew that he would never replicate it so effectively. However, given recent events the smile had no effect on him other than a mild sense of distaste.

"I'm fine, just painting."

The boy replied in a strained voice. He only wished for his dad to leave so that he could be alone again.

"I see that, it looks very… interesting. I was actually meaning to talk to you about what you've been painting recently."

The doctor continued carefully as his eyes searched his son's face. Hamish tensed up immediately at the mention of his other paintings and he began glaring at his dad.

"You've been looking through my things?"

Hamish questioned furiously as an overwhelming sense of anger and betrayal swept over him.

"I saw one of your paintings when I went to turn out your light a couple nights ago, that's all. It was sitting by the door, I didn't mean to pry but well… I was a bit concerned."

John explained as his smile dropped and a new stern but apologetic expression took its place. Hamish balled his hands into fists as he tried to fight back the rage boiling inside himself. Reta had told him how parents snooped, how it was only a matter of time before his parents started trying to dissect every aspect of his life. She said that it was in their nature to want to control, to take something that is private and force you to discuss it just to fulfill their own insecurities about your lifestyle choices. Reta's last legal guardian had been one of her dad's friends and had acted similarly, that's why she was living with her grandmother; Reta didn't allow people to rule over her like that. Hamish didn't like the idea of allowing it either.

"But you did pry! That's my stuff, it doesn't matter what you think of it, and it's mine! I don't bother you about your stuff!"

Hamish argued loudly with wide sweeping gestures as his anger elevated.

"Watch your tone young man! You don't get the right to 'bother' me about my things, I'm your dad! What I did was done out of love, I am concerned about you, I'm not out to ruin your life or anything."

The blonde said forcefully as his entire body seemed to grow taller and his shoulders squared off. For a moment the two of them did nothing but glare into each other's eyes until Hamish let out a low growl before talking.

"You're not concerned, you're being nosy. If you were concerned you wouldn't have left my mom so you could run off and marry the world's only consulting prick! He's obsessed with solving crimes, and you're obsessed with him! How you could possibly find the time to care for anyone else is beyond me! You two have been so involved in your case that you haven't even realized that I've been leaving the house almost every day!"

Hamish fumed at the man in front of him, resulting in a tense silence. He hadn't meant to admit the last part and he cursed himself internally for doing so, but he'd gotten so worked up his filter was long gone. John always said he was hot tempered; this might have been the final proof. The doctor was gaping at him, just out right staring in what appeared to be shock and rage.

"Your mother chose this life for you just as much as I did, this was her choice as well, she was only thinking of what was best for everyone. And as far as your father and I go we care for each other very much, and your father is attached to his work, but we have plenty of concern for you. We respect you as a young adult as well, which was why I was willing to give you some space since we had to take you away from your friends. I had no idea it was even possible to leave the grounds without being seen by one of Mycroft's men."

John said evenly as he tried to control his emotions. The man looked skeptical of Hamish's new routine, of his _ability _and that only infuriated him further.

"His men are idiots! A five year old could slip past them! At twelve, one and three there are shift changes and those leave two exits exposed for about ten minutes, plenty of time to get out and do as I please."

Hamish countered with a scoff and John began to look far less skeptical and far angrier.

"Do you realize what could have happened? Do you think that your father and I would have moved us all here if we didn't have a reason?"

"No! I don't know what could have happened _because you won't tell me_! I'm thirteen, I'm not a kid any more, I deserve an answer!"

"Thirteen still makes you a kid; and you have a lot of growing up to do if you think pulling a stunt like that is anywhere near appropriate!"

"Oh right, sure! Thirteen is too young to know why you're being put under house arrest with constant surveillance but sixteen is mature enough to move in with a grown man!"

The yelling died down and John looked as though his son's last comment had physically struck him. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing as their lungs tried desperately to catch up with them.

"This is not the same. I had a very different set of circumstances and your father was not a grown man he was only twenty-five at the time-"

"Would you let me move in with a twenty-two year old? Especially one who fancied me?"

"That's different Hamish! Thirteen is too young, and nothing happened between your father and I until I was in University."

"Yes, but people trusted you to be ok, but you wouldn't trust me! You treat me like I'm some mindless idiot, but I'm not! I know how to take care of myself, and I know how to handle these sorts of situations if you would just _trust_ me."

"Trust is something you have to _earn_ Hamish; you don't get that by throwing a tantrum."

And with that Hamish stormed into his stuffy room in the east wing for the last time.


	13. Chapter 13

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 13**

**I'm so sorry it took this long to update! I will try to update the next chapter sooner!**

Anger. No, fury. No, that wasn't it either, it was something much stronger, something he hadn't felt before, and it was growing. This hateful feeling inside of himself was feeding off every thought, every memory in the young boy's mind. He could not imagine a time he'd felt so infuriated with his dad. His dad had always been the one who was kind, forgiving, strict but reasonable and though his father got on his nerves at times his dad almost never did. John was not the type of man who went out of his way to find a fight, he liked compromise and it hurt to think he felt so opposed to Hamish that he wasn't willing to give any leeway on his stance. He had been so angry after their argument that he'd almost attempted to leave for Reta's immediately, but he had to wait until it was clear. Given that his dad now knew that he'd been leaving, security gaps closed quickly, he cursed himself for revealing that piece of information and studied the men all night. He had been interrupted for an hour as his father came up to question what had occurred earlier and about who he'd been visiting. A useless endeavor, Hamish would not speak to anyone. Anyone but Reta that was.

By the next morning he finally had his chance. There was a shift change (granted at a completely new time) and Hamish figured he had approximately five minutes to make his way out of the court yard and onto the street. It would have been suicide if his dad and father hadn't left thirty minutes earlier to go inspect another crime scene. However with the manor free of any truly observant people Hamish was free to escape and head towards Reta's house. His usual use of a baseball cap and hooded sweatshirt seemed like it might not be enough given that his uncle would be more alert since he was sure it was him his father had been yelling at over the phone. In preparation for such scrutiny he'd added a pair of sunglasses, something that wouldn't stick out too much. All of the clothing had been purchased at a second hand store, things he'd never wear normally, his uncle had no reason to believe it was him. If his uncle were any other man on earth he wouldn't even be concerned that he would.

No one had stopped him by the time he reached Reta's, so he figured that meant his scheme had worked. He mentally congratulated himself as he knocked on the large door. He knew the visit would be a surprise, he would have called ahead but his dad had taken away his phone. Hopefully she wouldn't mind, she never seemed perturbed by his presence and the boy optimistic that it was a sign she liked his company as much as he liked hers. When the butler came to the door and led Hamish into the sitting room the man informed him that Reta was busy at the moment but that he'd notify her of his arrival.

Hamish looked around the familiar room and let out a sigh. It may have been foolish but merely being at Reta's home made him feel better. What he needed was to escape for a while, remove himself from the constant tension that resided at his uncle's home. It wasn't long before Reta came winding down the stairs with her usual elegance. The sight never failed to take the boy's breath away and a fluttering of butterflies in his stomach replaced the anger that had been boiling there if not for but a moment. The girl looked curious as to what Hamish was doing there but not upset, he counted that as his second victory for the day.

"What brings you here unannounced? We weren't supposed to meet until tomorrow for another shooting match."

Reta inquired as she observed the boy. He knew it was unusual for him to arrive for an unscheduled visit, but he was certain she would understand once he explained. Besides, if she was willing he thought he might want to move the shooting match to just after they spoke as shooting something sounded like a marvelous way to blow off some steam.

"I know, but I had to. My dad and I had a huge row the other night. He took away my phone, my paints, and he locked me up in that bloody room. Not that it mattered; breaking out of that place is a piece of cake."

Hamish reported with a grimace. Bringing up his dad made him mad all over again, part of him wanted to skip this discussion entirely, but he knew Reta would demand to be given a full explanation.

"Hmm, what was the argument about, something to do with your knowledge about them I'm sure."

Reta purred as she moved closer.

"Well… yes that did come up; it started with him looking through my things though. He saw one of my paintings, I'm guessing it was the last one I gave to you because I had been pretty sure at the time it had been moved… how did you know we talked about me learning stuff about their past?"

Hamish continued almost hesitantly, when one asked Reta a question it was important they were prepared for the whole truth. He had learned from experience that sometimes the whole truth was more than you bargained for. However Reta seemed to pause for a moment with what looked to be a bout of momentary distress, but it passed so quickly he was almost certain he'd imagined it.

"It's obvious really. Adults don't like it when kids know more than them, they like to control what younger people know and don't know. You know far more than they'd like you to which is probably why they went searching through your things in the first place, they wanted to have something on you. You could probably avoid future conflict by pretending to be clueless about everything going on around you, though what fun would that be?"

Reta explained in her typical nonchalant manner.

"My dad's always encouraged me learning though… it's just hard to wrap my brain around all of this. I mean I spent all of my life thinking one thing and then all of a sudden everything changes."

Hamish protested weakly. Reta was introducing him to what felt like an entire new realm of thinking. Before he'd met the girl he never thought about whether or not his parents were hiding things from him or trying to deceive him, all of these new discoveries were leaving him extremely confused. He just wanted things to go back to how they used to be, he didn't want to be so angry and hurt all the time. He didn't like feeling like he was going to explode just looking at his dad because every word they spoke felt like some strategic move on a chess board. Life used to be simple, there were no lies or tricks, just family. That's all he wanted, but he knew he could never have it. Reta had opened the door to the reality of things, and once his eyes had been open he knew they could never be shut again. How could he even begin to forget everything that had been hidden from him?

"I know, you didn't deserve any of this. The problem is when you have parents like you do, it's inevitable. Clever people lead complicated and secretive lives; they only like to let a few people in on their secrets. Unfortunately your parents just don't see your value. They don't trust you with what they know, they'd much prefer you stay in the dark. Not me though, I'd never hide anything from you, I will always tell you what you want to know. All you need do is ask."

Reta stated softly as she took hold of Hamish's hand inside her own. Her skin was smooth and warm and comforted him despite all she'd just said. He'd never felt so hurt because of his parents before; he'd never known they could make him feel so betrayed.

"Yeah? Well can you tell me why you trust me? Because I don't feel very clever right now, and don't feel very useful. My dad never seemed like he'd doubt me before, now he doesn't seem to ever stop, I can't help but think that there might be a reason behind it."

Hamish commented quietly. He had been very close to his dad just a month or so before, back when he didn't know about all of the lies. The boy would be lying if he said the thought of how foolish he'd been to think someone as clever as his father, or intuitive as his dad would ever trust him.

"Don't talk like that. I trust you because your fathers are fools. Your father is the world's greatest detective; you've learned firsthand how to be cunning and observant. Not everyone could escape your uncle's house; that took real skill. Besides, you're brave like your dad and loyal too. If I were you I would have already left your parents, I've done it before. To be honest you're the only person I would trust."

Reta declared with vehemence, squeezing Hamish's hand.

"Really?"

Hamish asked skeptically as he studied the girl's dark eyes.

"Really, in fact I think you are the only person I will ever trust."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

There was a moment of silence as Hamish tried to process what was happening. No one had ever said something so profound to him before, and he felt flattered and a bit overwhelmed. He wondered what this meant for them, did this mean that she liked him like he liked her? It was possible she meant it in only a friendly way. He hoped she hadn't, but either way he was moved by her declaration.

"Hamish?"

Reta questioned softly, pulling the boy out of his head.

"Yes?"

"Runaway with me."


	14. Chapter 14

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 14**

He shouldn't have gone. He should have stayed at the house. Someone should have. Someone other than the security agents that didn't seem to know how to keep a thirteen year old from slipping past them. John already felt anxious about the prospect as they climbed into the car Mycroft had assigned them, once they arrived at the crime scene the feeling only grew. Sherlock insisted it was unlikely anything would happen to Hamish. The security had been warned and it was unlikely he would leave when he was already in so much trouble, he knew better than to cause further aggravation. Besides, all the pictures had been of John, John was the one to be attacked, and it was far more likely for the killer to take a second go at him. However it was clear Sherlock shared some of his concern as he was being particularly sarcastic to the Lestrade and the few others Mycroft had allowed to help with the case but John couldn't be bothered to step in. He was pacing the new victims living room consumed with thoughts of their son. Hamish and him had never fought like that, Sherlock said it was puberty but John had a feeling it was something quite different. If there was one thing he knew, it was his son, and that boy had not been acting normally since Irene's murder.

He had never been more nervous about his son than he had in the past month, and it was only getting worse. There was no indication as to where all of these new hostilities were springing up, or how he'd found out so much about John and Sherlock's past, but the doctor knew it just had to do with whoever he was sneaking out to see. It was unsettling to say the least. Whoever this person was he wanted them out of his son's life now, they were steering him down a bad path and John worried about what affect they were having on the boy's young psyche. Hamish had never been easily influenced, so this person had to be clever. He knew Hamish wouldn't want to hear it so soon after their fight, but John needed to put his foot down. This person could not be allowed to have further contact.

When he looked around the house of the most recent murder victim he wondered why the murderer had to choose the time his son was going through an adolescent crisis to start threatening his life. As if wondering when some knife wielding maniac might pop up wasn't enough, he wasn't even sure who his kid was spending all this time with. For all he knew it was some drug dealer… no, probably not, but someone not good. John would have noticed if Hamish showed any signs of drug abuse. At any rate the circumstances really couldn't get any worse and the sooner the killer was found the better. He just wanted to figure out what was going on with the boy before any more damage was done. Clearly he was upset, and John hated to see him like that.

"John!"

Sherlock's urgent cry ripped John from his thoughts on Hamish and to where his husband was. The doctor made his way out of the living area and through the house as quickly as possible, looking for any sign of where the man might be. The house was quite large and the longer it took him to locate Sherlock the more anxious he became. When he finally found the detective he was standing in a large dining room with Lestrade and one of Mycroft's agents staring down at the body of a middle aged woman.

"What? What's happened?"

John questioned as thousands of horrible possibilities sounded off in his mind. Sherlock did not answer at first, merely walked over to the blonde and then led him closer to the scene of the crime.

"Does this look familiar to you?"

The detective asked and at first John was so stunned he couldn't even process what he'd said. All he could think was that they were not in immediate danger, and neither was Hamish. Then he looked around the room before focusing in on the woman hunched over the dining table. She was the owner of the house no doubt, there didn't seem to be anyone else living in the elegant house and it had been her work that made a missing person inquiry. Something was very 'not good' about her though, something seemed odd. A few something's actually. Many of the victims had had their clothing changed to better fit the murderer's fancy, and it was clear that the same had been done to her; it even looked as though the woman had been given a haircut. There were only a few trace signs of it but years of working with Sherlock made John's eyes keen for detail. And the more he observed the stranger things became. Something about the image was far too familiar. There was an apple in her hand with what couldn't have been more than two bites taken out of it. The apple itself had gone rotten, as well as the rest of the fruit that was resting in the center of the table and when John leaned in he could see that someone had tampered with the fruits. Small needle holes could be just barely made out. However the doctor still failed to recognize where this eerily familiar scene had come up in the past.

"It does… did we solve another murder like this…"

His voice trailed off as he realized that he had come to the wrong conclusion. The answer was on the tip of his tongue but nothing was coming to mind.

"_Think_. Really think John. We've seen this woman before, this _disturbing image_."

Sherlock pressed as he gripped his hands behind his back tightly. John looked back to the woman and let his husband's specific phrasing engrain itself in his mind before he had a sudden thunderbolt of clarity. He went instantly pale as the realization struck and he had to lean onto the nearby wall to prevent himself from falling over.

"No, do you… you know what this means."

John stammered as his mind raced and his heart thundered.

"Yes, we've caught the killer."

Sherlock declared darkly as he moved over and began leading John out of the house. The doctor could hardly manage to maintain his balance while being rushed outside; he was far more concentrated on other things. Lestrade had been silently observing until then and followed quickly behind the pair as they made their way towards their car.

"Hold on, what are you talking about? Just yesterday you didn't know anything about this killer other than her gender, now all of a sudden you know exactly who it is?"

The detective inspector questioned desperately as a disoriented John was stowed away into the black Lincoln. Sherlock spun around to pin Lestrade with his signature stare and pointed towards the house with vehemence.

"Whoever killed that woman staged her murder to mimic one of Hamish's paintings. One that I'd be willing to bet my life on that only John, Hamish, and I laid eyes on… excluding one person. Hamish has been sneaking off to see someone, and given the hours he's been spending painting and the severe lack of paintings in his room, I'd say he's been giving these paintings to that someone. The mystery killer and Hamish's mystery friend are one in the same."

Sherlock informed the man with an intensity that John hadn't heard in years. The detective didn't wait for Lestrade to recover from the shock; instead he hopped into the car alongside the doctor and demanded the driver get them back as quickly as possible. John was practically trembling in his seat as the reality set in and tried to maintain his composure.

"Our son has been hanging around a _murderer_."

He finally panted out and buried his face into his hands only to have Sherlock jerk him back upright.

"John, we need to focus now. This is good… well, mostly. It means we've caught her! We shall obtain her identity from Hamish and then lock her away. From there we can appropriately punish our son for keeping such bad company."

Sherlock said as steadily as possible. Despite what he said it was clear that he was shaken as well, but John accepted that this was the lie they needed to tell themselves for the time. Once the killer was secured they could worry about what had happened, what they'd allowed to occur, but first they needed to make sure everyone was safe. They just needed to get back to Hamish.


	15. Chapter 15

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 15**

**Hey everybody! Two super cool announcements today! First of all, August ninth just happens to be b. Christine's birthday! You should all say happy birthday to her (sorry, I tried to get this out sooner!). Also **Nikki Mustang** has decided she would like to be my beta! As I'm sure many have noticed I do not have one, but she asked and I couldn't be happier to say yes! Anyway, onwards into the land of drama!**

When Hamish was seven years old he wanted to do an experiment on one of his dad's favorite jumpers. Needless to say he had been scolded and punished accordingly. That night he was so mad that he'd been put to his room early for doing something his father seemed to do daily that he decided he would run away. He would run away so far that his dad would never see him again, and that would teach him a lesson for yelling at him. However, after the plan was written out, a map drawn, and his things packed he reached the bottom of the stairs and stared out at the busy street in front of him. It was quite late, and he had never liked the dark, and he'd never crossed the road without holding someone's hand. After a moment passed Hamish quickly retreated to his bedroom, running away was simply out of the question.

Hamish wasn't seven anymore though, and his problems with his dad now exceeded a simple case of an early bed time. Yet as Reta stood before him with her sly smile and sharp eyes, the prospect of running away was just as frightening. He was angry, he was hurt, and he felt betrayed. But for all the time he'd been spending with Reta, he didn't really know her. Besides, despite how furious he was with his parents at the time, he did still love them. Plus, he knew that his father would find them soon enough if they did run off, the whole idea was ludicrous.

Even as he considered all the implications of running away, of how scary and serious it could be, he was just the slightest bit tempted. It might serve his dad right; teach him a lesson for being so secretive. There was also the added bonus that Reta was so interesting, and running away with her would probably be the most exciting thing he'd ever done. The way she asked with a silk like quality to her voice made a shiver of excitement race down the young boy's spine and for a moment running away with her was the only thing he wanted to do. In fact, for a very long moment it was the only thing he could think of.

Except thoughts of his dad soon erupted in the forefront of his mind. How worried his dad had looked when he heard that he'd been sneaking off, how seriously both his dads were taking this new case. It was very possible that they would think he had been killed given their line of work. Perhaps they would assume he'd been stabbed like his dad had that day. Either way he didn't feel comfortable having them that worried. It was bad enough that he'd even been leaving the house; he'd known how dangerous going alone had been, but his anger had blinded him. Now it was very clear what a big mistake he had been making, Reta had been given the wrong idea about him, he wasn't nearly as bold as her. His parents could be pricks as far as he was concerned, but so could he, and it didn't mean they didn't have their good points too. Reta didn't have a family like he did though, she had been passed along so many times he wasn't sure she would understand, but she had to, he wasn't about to just go running off.

"Reta… I'd love to run off with you, if anything just because I'm sure we'd be so brilliant at it. But I can't do that."

Hamish admitted softly and hoped that Reta wouldn't be offended at his rejection. She blinked a few times as she observed him and her features began to harden.

"Why not? I think it's fairly obvious you don't get along with your parents, why stay with them? You'd be far better off with me."

Reta argued as she took a step closer and Hamish couldn't help but let out a remorseful sigh.

"We're a bit young to be running off on our own don't you think? I mean… I don't even know where we'd go. And don't you think your grandma and my dads would come looking for us?"

Hamish explained carefully as he examined the expression on his friend's face.

"I'm the same age your dad was, things seemed to work out well for him. Besides, they are only an issue if you let them be. As far as I'm concerned all three of them are easily disposed of."

Reta stated boldly and Hamish was taken aback by the tone in her voice and not entirely sure what she was trying to say.

"What are you saying?"

* * *

Empty.

It was all empty.

_All_ of it.

That was the only thing he could think of as he ran through the manor. Mycroft's men were gone, but more importantly, so was Hamish. And as panic and fear gripped him tightly around the throat and threatened to strangle the life out of him right then, he knew it was the most scared he'd ever been in his life. More so than when he'd been taken by the cabby, or when Sebastian had pinned him in the bank, or when he'd thought the hound was chasing him. His son was missing, and so were all the people meant to protect him. Sherlock was desperately trying to deduce anything he could to determine where everyone had gone. All John could think to do was look through his son's room and clutch at the boy's forgotten phone.

A sickening number of scenarios were crossing his mind with alarming speed and all he could think to do was run out and just start searching. To run to the farthest corners of the earth until he found him, until he could hold him in his arms again and he knew he was safe. But it was not the time to panic, or to start jumping in head first. They had to think, to plan. John had been a soldier; he knew how to maintain himself in times of crisis. It hadn't been his son he was saving out on the battle field though, and the level of panic was incomparable.

"John!"

Sherlock called out loudly and John went sprinting towards where his husband's voice appeared to be originating from. The detective was in the main entrance and shoving his phone in his pocket.

"What? Did you find something?"

John asked in a rush as he looked around, hopeful for any sign that perhaps he'd just missed his son. No such luck.

"I've just talked to Mycroft, his whole department has been compromised, but Anthea personally reviewed the security tapes in the area and tracked him down to an address in Kensington."

Without another word the two of them hurried into the car and sped towards the address. John had never been a religious man, but he prayed the whole way there.

* * *

Hamish was quickly becoming uncomfortable with the look in Reta's eyes. He had yet to see her look so devilish. There was a strange change in the air around them and it seemed to be filled with a certain amount of electricity. His skin was beginning to fill with goose bumps and he wanted her to stop looking at him so intensely, but this was his friend and he couldn't imagine she meant any real harm. So he tried to relax and reasoned that perhaps Reta was just upset he didn't want to run off with her.

"I'm saying that we have a problem here, one that can be easily solved, so long as you're willing to help me."

Reta continued with a smirk and Hamish could feel a thick cloud of confusion form around him. What exactly was she talking about? Because things were looking very strange now.

"Help you? Reta, what do you mean to do?"

Hamish questioned nervously as he studied the dangerous glint in her eye.

"I mean to fix this. My grandmother is useless, and your parents can't be trusted. We have each other, why do we need them anyway? If we get rid of them, then we can be free to do as we please. No one can stop us once their gone."

She answered back darkly and Hamish could feel the blood drain from his face.

"_Get rid of them_? Reta, what are you talking about? That's insane!"

Hamish protested in shock and tried to put some distance between himself and his threatening friend.

"I'm not insane, don't ever call me that!"

She shrieked and Hamish froze in his place. Her features had contorted and made her look far more dangerous than he would have once thought possible.

"_I'm not insane_. I'm not insane; I just don't think we need to be held back by these idiots! Is that so insane? To think that maybe it's time for us to be the ring leaders? They had their chance, and they blew it! Your dads lied to you; they treated you like a baby. My parents… my dad was taken from me, but my mom left. They didn't need me, and I don't need them, and you don't need yours either."

Reta raged on and drew closer still, backing the young boy into a corner.

"I think you need to take a deep breath, think about what you're saying. I love my parents and-and, _murder_? Killing? Reta… that is an awful big thing."

Hamish said sternly, positive that whatever was going through the girl's head that she couldn't possibly be as horrible as it sounded.

"Perhaps the first time, but I think you'll come to like it."

She replied slyly and inched even closer.

"Me!?"

Hamish exclaimed with horror.

"Reta, I would never kill, especially not my _parents_! What is going on with you today?"

He continued vehemently and tried desperately to bury himself further within the corner.

"Same thing as every other day, I'm just looking out for our future."


	16. Chapter 16

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 16**

Hamish hadn't needed to wait long; moments after he'd been secured in the basement his dads were breaking into the manor. He knew they would refuse to be taken without a fight, and it sounded as though they gave a good one before being hauled up the stairs. As he listened to the sickening thumps of his parent's unconscious bodies being lugged up the staircase, Reta made her way down the staircase to him. She looked far too pleased with herself when she entered the room. It made a lump lodge in the boy's throat.

"It seems stubbornness runs in the family… how unfortunate."

"What have you done!?"

"Nothing, love. I just put them somewhere safe for now. What happens next is entirely up to you."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I already told you, and you know how I feel about repeating myself."

Reta walked aimlessly around the damp basement, studying her nails amusedly as while she spoke; Hamish found the sight both infuriating and horribly frightening. He had known she was a girl with seemingly endless resources in addition to her high intelligence, but he had never once thought her schemes went this far. She had people all over the city working for her and from what she'd explained they had all once worked for her late father. They were indebted to him for certain favors he'd done for them, and Reta had the available man power to see to it that those debts were paid.

She had used these people to keep an eye on Hamish and to help her carry out her various crimes all over the city to keep his father from solving the cases. Hamish would have slapped himself if he weren't tied so effectively to the cold metal chair in the middle of the room; it had all been horribly obvious if he thought about it long enough. He'd had ample time to as of late, since he had little else to do after she locked him in the basement to force him to calm down. His temperament had only gotten worse after he heard his dad break through the front door. There wasn't much he could make out after that aside from various grunts and what sounded like fists hitting solid flesh.

He hung his head in despair as he thought of his dad frantically trying to locate him only to be beaten down by the pure muscle defending Reta's ambitions. The ex-army doctor wouldn't take it well. Hamish figured that didn't matter much at the moment; what he had to worry about right now was making sure his dad got the chance to look back on that day at all. At the time it seemed such a prospect was wishful thinking. Reta was cunning and she had been planning this day for a long time. The task of saving his parents and himself from her clutches looked to be a formidable one, and he had done nothing so far to help them out of it. All he could think to do was to somehow appeal to Reta, to make her see why what she was doing was crazy. That clearly wouldn't work; Reta was obviously mad and Hamish scolded himself for not seeing it before.

The only thing he could think to do was to get the girl talking. He'd seen enough Bond films with his dad to know that that's how you distracted the villain. It also wouldn't hurt to have a better picture of just why Reta was doing all of this. He might be able to use the information to his advantage. As he looked about the room it was obvious the basement had been equipped for torture. The thought made his stomach drop considerably. He hoped her intention wasn't to torture him or his fathers. His dad was brave, and his father extremely stubborn, but Hamish wasn't so sure he was prepared to have his body mutilated. If Reta could be distracted from any sort of activity that involved the ominous assortment of blades located on the table to his left it would certainly be a plus.

"Explain it to me again, please. I'm not nearly as clever as you and all of this has gone over my head, I'm afraid." Hamish replied as smoothly as possible and offered an innocent smile. He wasn't sure she'd be fooled but he hoped it would at least mask some of the contempt he held for those words. Her smile in return looked slimy and made his skin crawl.

"Oh, don't sell yourself short dear. You are significantly cleverer than the vast majority of people on this planet. Though, it is quite a task to be as clever as me I suppose… well as I said before I'm merely concerned for our future." Reta offered and drew closer to the boy strapped to the chair.

"Yes, I've got that bit. I was more curious as to why, after the short time we've been in acquaintance with each other, you're suddenly planning out our future." Hamish provided calmly, though he felt anything but serene at that point in time. The girl observed him for a second before clearing her throat softly.

"I've known you long enough. I did a considerable amount of research on you and your family before we met, but found it wasn't entirely necessary. As soon as I learned of your existence I knew we were made for each other." Reta hummed fondly as she moved forward to caress the boy's soft cheek.

"You researched me?" Hamish asked, stunned. He wasn't sure what to think about the fact that their meeting in the rain that day had been planned. She had to have known what was going to happen, that she would be able to find him there and give him a ride. She must have purposefully moved herself to London and been enrolled in his school. Worse, if she knew his dads were going to miss the art show that meant she had to have known about the murder and was very likely behind it as well.

"Of course, it's what I do. I make it my business to know everything, especially about my enemies. What kind of consultant would I be if I didn't learn everything I possibly could about the people I intend to murder?" Reta answered lightly and moved her hand from his cheek to the top of his head and began to sift gently through his hair. The boy sucked in a deep breath as her words struck him full force and he hoped against all hope that she wasn't still planning on killing his family.

"If I'm your enemy then why do we have a future together?" He questioned carefully, not wanting to upset her just yet if her intensions were to hurt him.

"Oh silly! You're not my enemy. Goodness no, you've done nothing significant enough to have formed an enemy as powerful as me! I'm speaking of your dad and father, of course. It really boils down to your father, actually, but you know how that goes. Sherlock always seems to find a way to pull John into the dirt with him. No, you're just their son. A perfect combination of all their finer attributes. John's courage, his way with words, and his prowess on the battlefield. Quite honestly your shot _is_ one of the best I've seen, especially given your age. Then there's Sherlock's quick wit; while it was not biologically inherited, it's clear you've picked up a few things. You've learned many of his techniques as well. These are all reasons as to why I want you by my side. I wouldn't even think to murder you." Reta explained with exuberance as she dropped her hands from his hair to gesticulate. The boy blinked a few times as he tried to process the information. This girl was further around the bend than he'd originally thought. It was purely insane; she hated his father, and she wanted to get rid of him and his dad. Then there was this secret plan to be with him? Hamish had truly been falling for her and now all of this. His heart shattered, and it was the only thing he could register through the cloud of confusion and fear that surrounded him.

"What did my father ever do to you?" He wondered aloud. Reta was young to be living a life of crime, though considering the day's events he wouldn't have been surprised in the least. Her body grew stiff and her eyes narrowed as an anger flickered behind them that truly terrified the boy.

"He stole my family," she fumed as she flung herself away from Hamish and began pacing the basement floor furiously. "My father worked tirelessly to see that I was born, the perfect daughter to take over his empire. Then, before I could even begin to get to know him, your father tricks him into killing himself. After that I was left in the care of his only true friend, whom your father also killed. To be fair, it was because he had planned to kill your dad as revenge, but honestly as far as I'm concerned it would only have been fair. I mean, we'd have both been orphans being raised by the only men left who cared. It would have been rather poetic, don't you think? However, that's _not_ what happened, so I was sent to my mother. Truthfully this in itself was probably a bad idea; she had never wanted me in the first place. Though the situation, unlike your mother's, hadn't been an accident. She had been paid very well to give birth to me. I'd only been staying with her a week when she discovered my _collection_… she had me moved within the hour."

Reta continued, alternating between varying levels of rage and glee. The display was nerve wracking even without the information she was giving. "But I showed her! She said I didn't have a heart, she said I was no better than my dad. She said I was _unlovable_! She wouldn't give me her love, her heart, so I _took_ it. She was quite powerless to protect it as she writhed on the floor of that hideous bedroom. I might have done it sooner if it weren't for how clever she was about hiding herself. However, I think it all worked out rather splendidly, as she was the perfect distraction for your father… I suspected he'd be tempted to go to the scene even without the picture I placed there of your family. Then it was just a matter of keeping him distracted enough that he didn't notice me swaying your loyalty in my favor. I made it look like your dad was the target so he would be more preoccupied with him; I think that was a success as well."

Reta ranted and Hamish could feel his heart rate increasing with every word. She moved about the room as if she was possessed. He wondered briefly if she was. He tried and failed to steady himself as his body trembled with the knowledge that the girl he once assumed to be his friend was actually a psychopath hell-bent on killing his family.

"What are you a consultant in then? Murder? And if so then why do you need me? You seem to be doing just fine by yourself." Hamish stated defiantly. As scared as he was, he didn't like the idea of letting her push him around.

"I suppose I could be a consulting murderer… it has a nice ring to it. My father considered himself a consulting criminal, although I might branch out a bit. It could be more fun to work on both sides, play them against each other… and there you go again selling yourself short! Sure, I'm smart enough to pull off the crimes, but you're my muse! My other half! Just as Sherlock requires John, or my father needed Sebastian. I can cover up a murder with ease, but you… you help me make it meaningful. I killed those peons in the same fashion the people in your paintings were found, and that makes all the difference. _That_ makes it art."

Reta drew close again, running the tips of her fingers along his jaw before letting her hand rest on his cheek once more. A shiver ran down his spine as a sickening blanket of horror covered him. His paintings had been nothing more than portrayals of the anger he'd been feeling, which had been apparently created by Reta, and she'd been killing real people based off of those representations. He was nearly sick all over himself.

"I'm not your other half. I don't want to kill innocent people. I don't want to kill at all. And I certainly don't want you to kill my parents."

Hamish protested shakily as he stared down pure evil. The girl smirked in response and the hand resting on the boy's cheek was soon dragging itself across his face leaving four thin lines of blood behind. He hissed quietly in pain but offered no other reaction; he didn't want to allow her the satisfaction.

"I'm willing to wait, to give you the time to realize your true purpose," She cooed lovingly before patting the side of his face, smearing his blood across it. "We were destined to be together Hamish, I just know it. One day you'll understand." The girl moved slowly across the basement floor, pausing at the multiple tools of torture that had been laid out on the table. She flashed a quick smirk towards Hamish before moving along.

"Oh, and I don't plan to kill your parents," Reta added as she neared the stairs. Hamish couldn't help but let out a sigh in relief. "I plan to have you do the honors yourself," She called out as she exited the room, leaving the boy to sit in horror and ruminate on the possibilities behind that statement.


	17. Chapter 17

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 17**

**Hey, I just wanted to thank you all for all the lovely reviews and for reading the story. **

He hadn't been knocked out; the men who had rushed them at the door were met by his husband's trained fists before they managed to subdue the soldier by slamming his head into the nearby railing. There was the sound of bone hitting metal which was a sickening sort of crack that made Sherlock's heart stop. John wasn't getting back up and they hadn't been able to spot Hamish yet. The detective attempted to make his way through now that his husband wasn't blocking him and made a dash for what he'd observed as the basement door. His lack of military training meant that he didn't get far, but he didn't prove to be as much of a threat and the two burly men merely dragged him up the stairs along with John's limp body. He'd put up a fight when they'd tied him in the chair, but it hadn't done him any good, and all he earned for his troubles was a firm punch to the jaw to keep him in line.

When they left he screamed for Hamish for what felt like a good hour though it could have been shorter. Once he did that he turned towards John who was tied up beside him, his head hanging loosely as blood dripped down his face from the wound on his forehead. Sherlock called to the doctor desperately hoping to wake him as he sit there unconscious while their son was hidden away somewhere just outside the door. As time passed he began to feel more and more panic for his son's condition as well as his husband's. The panic grew with every passing moment it became clearer that there was nothing he could do. His son was in the hands of some blooming psychopath and his husband had a bad head injury. His pleas did nothing to stir John and the situation was looking very bleak and it was so frustrating the detective knew if he were able he'd rip his hair out. He'd told John they should attempt another way out of the country, but his husband insisted it was better they face the killer head on. Stupid, reckless, idiotic, stubborn, brave, heroic John.

Finally the man did begin to show signs of waking and Sherlock could feel a tiny speck of hope spring forth in his chest. With John awake it would be much easier to think, to plan, to clear some of the panic from his mind. The doctor's eyes blinked open slowly and with what looked like great effort. With a nervous laugh the detective released some of the tension he had held for his husband's condition and studied the man closely. It appeared John was trying to figure out where he was, and establishing that he'd been tied to a chair. Once that was done he looked over to Sherlock and gave a weak smile that indicated he was at least semi-coherent.

"I've been trying to wake you for ages, one knock to the head and you're off the job, honestly I thought we established you were better at taking hits than that."

Sherlock said by means of a greeting and John did nothing but huff a small chuckle that held little humor to it. The detective's eye never left the doctor's form and it began to rake over the man with great intensity.

"Are you alright? That is, I mean to say… that you've lost a significant amount of blood it would seem."

The man continued with a softer tone as he stared at the wound and longed to have just one hand free to stop the blood from leaking out of the body that so desperately needed it.

"I'm fine, just a bit of a head ache is all. I'll be fine as soon as we get Hamish out of here."

John answered with just as much tenderness, as though it was Sherlock who needed to be tended to. Perhaps in some respects that was true, but at the moment what mattered was that they retrieved their son and escaped. There would be time to address their problems later.

"I haven't heard anything for a while, nothing more than a few footsteps that is. I have determined that the two men who met us at the door are guarding this room currently and that at some point someone of a smaller disposition entered the basement. At the moment I would say there is not much we can do but wait, I've tried to free myself from the ropes and the task has proved to be quite impossible."

Sherlock reported factually before tugging at the ropes once more as proof. John nodded his head solemnly and observed the room around them.

"No sign of this mystery person then, whoever it is Hamish has been coming to see?"

John asked carefully as he looked back to his husband's eyes.

"Not yet, but I hope to chat with her very soon."

Sherlock replied darkly. The woman who had been committing these murders had certainly earned her way onto his bad side. She had killed one of his only friends, attempted to murder his husband, and had been manipulating their son. He hated her more than he hated himself at the moment. It should have been more obvious, he should have noticed he'd been played. That John had been a distraction, that all the murders themselves had been clues. The detective paid so little attention to the intricate details of his son's life that he missed integral clues in the case. His oversights would cost them dearly; there was no way they could get out of the manor without some altercation. This woman had power, and she was clever, it would take both his and John's combined strengths to get them out.

When the sounds of dainty footsteps began approaching their door the pair fell silent. There was a murmur of conversation between the new person and the guards. Judging by the light qualities and higher octaves the mysterious person's voice possessed it was obvious it belonged to a woman. Sherlock held back a snarl as he considered just who was beyond the door. John tensed as well, likely readying himself to fight despite his restrained limbs. When the door swung open Sherlock was, in a word, stunned. Of all the ways he'd imagined this woman looking it was not as a lean sixteen year old girl, one who hardly looked old enough to be driving let alone running some underground criminal network. The girl strode forward confidently and seemed amused by the shocked looks on both John and Sherlock's faces.

"Hope I didn't keep you waiting too long, Hamish and I were just having a quick chat."

The girl announced smugly as the door shut behind her. John's features shifted instantly from that of shock to rage. Sherlock wasn't surprised to see this response from his husband, though it worried him. Despite the girl's age she was smart, and she had managed to pull off multiple murders, and she'd already hurt the doctor once.

"Don't you touch my son."

John growled out viciously from his seat and Sherlock could feel himself go stiff immediately. There was no way he could deduce how this girl would respond to them lashing out, he'd learned long ago that psychopaths were not people one could predict. She didn't appear to be disturbed by the comment though, and he hoped that was a good sign. If anything were to happen to Hamish, or John, Sherlock wasn't sure what he would do with himself. The fear of either of them getting hurt was paralyzing and he wanted nothing more than to flee the mansion with the two of them and wrap them in his arms.

"Don't worry; I haven't had the pleasure yet. I just thought this would be an excellent time for us to bond, seeing as you won't be around much longer."

The girl replied with a slimy smile that made the hair on the back of the detective's neck stand on end. Rarely did criminals scare him, but this girl was insane, and she had his family. At the mention of their apparently close approaching demise Sherlock could feel his heart begin to beat lightning fast.

"Who are you, why are you doing this?"

Sherlock questioned quickly. He didn't have a clear mind in which to form more detailed questions yet but he needed information. Anything he could learn that might give him an edge, something to tip the scales in their favor.

"My name is Henrietta Moriarty, and I'm simply trying to even the playing field."

Henrietta announced boldly as she stepped closer and something in the back of the detective's mind snapped into place. He observed the girl for a beat before letting the news sink in. John looked hopelessly lost but Sherlock felt himself beginning to understand.

"You're the girl, the one Sebastian spoke of. He wrote of you in the letters I recovered."

Sherlock said smoothly as he studied the twitch in the demented girl's eye.

"Yes, I'm sure he wrote of me often before you murdered him."

She snapped furiously and Sherlock could feel the familiar tug of anxiety. Normally he wouldn't bat an eye at using a suspect's anger to turn a situation in his favor, but normally those suspects didn't have his son hidden in their basement.

"I was simply looking to protect my family. Just as I am now. We don't need to ruin anymore lives over this, let us just discuss it like civilized people."

Sherlock continued carefully, hoping against hope the girl would see reason.

"The time for being civilized ended with my father, when you talked him into suicide."

Henrietta snarled out and Sherlock almost visibly deflated, the girl clearly wouldn't be changing her mind on that anytime soon.

"What happened between us and your father has nothing to do with Hamish, let him go."

John added in urgently. The girl slipped back into her original easy going demeanor before coming closer to John. When her small hand rested on his shoulder Sherlock had to fight the bubbling desire to scream out. The girl should not have been allowed to touch John.

"But it has everything to do with him. Don't you see? Everything that happened led to this, to me and him. We were meant to be."

Henrietta drawled and Sherlock felt himself go numb at the simple utterance of those words.

"Don't you go near him! You were not meant to be you psychotic little girl! You let my son go!"

John shouted forcefully at the young girl and Sherlock could sense the anger building in their captor's soul.

"I will do as I please."

She answered back with a coldness Sherlock had heard only one person master before her. When her hand clamped down and her thumb drove itself into John's war wound the doctor stifled a pained cry. Sherlock let out a near sob at the sight and couldn't help but try to move himself closer to his husband, to do what he wasn't sure. After she had finished she left in a rush and Sherlock didn't feel any relief in that. He knew things would only get worse from there.


	18. Chapter 18

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 18**

**Ok, let me just apoloize to Nikki in advance. I know this is so long. Also so sorry to everyone else that updates have teken so long lately. Hopefully this makes up for it.**

**Also please don't kill me, I will try to update soon.**

Hamish wasn't sure if he had been more disturbed by the silence that followed Reta's departure or the pained shouts he heard his fathers let out. Whichever it was it couldn't have been by much because both had left him shuddering with a fear he'd never felt before. It didn't help that while he sat in the dank basement replaying the sounds his fathers had made, Reta's angered footsteps didn't make matters any better either. All he could do was listen as she spoke feverishly about something or other with one of the guards. However, as he strained to hear her rushed jumble of words, a thought sprung forth in this mind.

Reta planned to make Hamish kill his own parents. With a quick look around the torture equipped basement he assumed that they would be brought to him, that he would be required to use one of the many weapons laid out on the tables. Or perhaps he would be brought to them, or they'd all be brought somewhere different entirely. But no matter where it occurred, it was unavoidable that for him to kill his parents he would have to be handed a weapon at some point. She wouldn't expect him to kill them with his bare hands, besides it was most probable she would have him use a gun considering all the training they'd done.

A smile creeped long the young boy's face as he realized what a position Reta would be putting herself in. She was smart, but she didn't have the clarity of mind he possessed. Her madness and obsession would be her downfall, just as it had been her father's. With a plan formed Hamish felt more at ease and was not nearly as disturbed as a normal boy would be when he heard Reta approaching the door and taking the stairs two at a time. His stomach was doing back flips when the girl came so close their breath intermingled in the air, trapped in a silent battle of their own. With a cold analytical glare Reta swept her eyes over his trembling form and quirked a devilish smile.

"Are you scared?"

She teased darkly and moved her hand slowly up his arm until her finger tips were dancing on his shoulder and finally gripping his neck loosely.

"Your pulse is simply out of control, you must be nervous. This wouldn't have anything to do with what I said about your daddies does it?"

Reta mocked with a snicker that made Hamish grind his teeth together.

"Good guess, I suppose you're just as clever as you are insane."

Hamish spit out as he tried to will himself not to panic over her tightening grip around his throat.

"I'm not insane. Don't ever say that again."

Reta snarled and dug her nails into the boy's soft flesh before flinging herself across the room. The sting in his neck was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he heard his dads being brought to the door. There was a tentative knock that pulled Reta out of her thoughts and ceased her heavy breathing.

"Give us a moment, we're not done here."

She called out sweetly as though she didn't have plans to murder any one. After a few seconds of glaring at each other Reta finally approached him with a smile that could churn milk. The girl he had once known no longer existed, that much was evident by the awful gleam in her eye and the snarl perched at the tips of her lips, this girl who had been hiding was all that remained and she was not someone he could reason with. Reta, or the Reta he had thought her to be, was clever and resourceful, not maniacal and psychotic. When he'd spoken with her the anger she held for authority had never come across as anything more than a complex, one developed over years of abandonment. Now he could see that this girl was not a girl at all, she was a snake, a liar and a predator. She would say or do whatever it took to catch her prey, and he'd been dumb enough to fall into her trap. Caught in her stare he could see that now, he could see what had been lurking inside all that time, what had been hiding just beneath the surface. With a horrible twist in his gut he knew for certain that there really was only one way his parents would be leaving alive, there was only one way he could fix what he'd done.

"Are you ready? Are you ready to begin the game? Killing your parents is just the first of many moves in our little game. We're going to spend the rest of our lives together, playing games, making London just a bit more interesting… maybe after this we will kill that inspector that helps your father, he's a bit of a nuisance, and getting a bit old if you ask me. I think it's time someone new take his spot, someone who…"

"Can play the game?"

Hamish offered bitterly which earned him another smile that made his insides quake. The girl sat herself in his lap and ran an idle hand along his jaw line. With a grunt of both shock and disapproval the boy attempted to wiggle himself further into the chair and away from Reta.

"Exactly. It's all about the game. All of this, it's just a game. Everything is, you shouldn't take it so seriously. Honestly you didn't even like your parents to begin with it's not as though you will miss them, and they'd die eventually, everyone does. Really I'm just making things more interesting for you. What a bore it would have been to wait until you were old enough to move out and be on your own. This is much better, try to think of it like that. I hate to see you so grumpy about all this."

Reta cooed and ran her hand through his hair almost lovingly. He fought the urge to growl at her and instead clenched his teeth so that when he spoke his words came out in a low hiss.

"I love them, not that you would understand that. I would much prefer my boring life with them over this psychotic one with you thanks very much."

Hamish stated with contempt and caused the girl in his lap to shoot up to her feet and face him. Her eyes were livid and she shook with anger, but for a moment all she did was stare. Then with great force and emotion she slapped an open hand across the cheek she had cut not moments before she'd left the basement before.

"You are a rude boy Hamish, and it does no suit you in the least. You're going to have to learn your place."

Reta shouted at him with meaning. At that he did hear his dad call out and both his and the girl's heads snapped towards the basement door. There were clear indications that a struggle was taking place, his dad was no doubt trying to fight off whoever was holding him. After a moment or two the noise settled and Reta seemed immensely pleased with what had happened, which only made Hamish worry more.

"You may bring them down now."

She called up the stairs with an almost musical quality to her voice. Hamish stiffened in his chair as he heard and then watched his parents be paraded down the steps. His dad had a gash on his head, and what looked like several bruises in the early stages of forming. His father looked alright, other than his rumpled attire, though his eyes were holding back a sort of pain he'd never seen in them before. During his thirteen years of life he'd never seen his father give such a look, and he prayed he never would again, especially knowing he'd been the one to put it there. Being a distant and serious man his father never appeared someone of much emotion, despite what his dad said, but it was obvious now he had been clueless in more than just a few areas. Once both men and the guards that held them made it to the basement floor he could feel the weight of both of his parents analytical stares. He watched as their eyes caught on his red and bleeding cheek, and the fresh cuts in his neck. There was no amount of money he wouldn't pay to take back those looks, to remove the worry and hurt from their hearts. However he knew that he would never, could never, take that away. And things were only going to get worse.

"It's time to start the game."

Reta announced gleefully as she looked around the room. The guards pushed Hamish's fathers to their knees in front of him and a fifth guard came down the stairs to stand by his side.

"You will have your choice between a knife, or a gun. I will leave the room (as a precaution of course) and you will have thirty minutes to comply. At which time if you've done nothing then I will be forced to act myself. However, I would not attempt to kill the guards, there are plenty more where they came from just up the stairs, you won't get far.

She paused for a beat to soak in the emotions playing on the family's faces. Both the confused and nervous ones of his fathers and the stoic one on his own, though his facial features hardly did him any justice considering how terrified he truly felt. He'd had time to prepare himself for his decision but it didn't feel like nearly enough when he heard those words come pouring out of her mouth.

"This is going to be fun I can tell, just keep your head up Hamish, you will thank me later."

Reta purred and walked closer to place a soft and somehow possessive kiss to his temple.

"Thank you for what?"

Sherlock rumbled from his spot on the floor, from which Hamish could actually see the top of his head and the sight of it took his mind off the seriousness of his situation for a second as he observed the several strands of hair that had begun to grey. He wondered if his dad even knew they existed since they were both shorter than average and neither of them would likely ever be tall enough to examine the man's head so closely, and he wondered if he would ever even have the chance to ask his dad if he knew. Things didn't seem so great, and it wasn't looking likely, and he was sure he was losing his mind because how many people thought about their father's hair in their last moments? The same sort of people who would lick a frog he supposed.

* * *

When Hamish was six years old he was curious in the extreme. There wasn't a subject that didn't interest him, or a topic he didn't want to learn about. The boy was an empty cup just begging to be filled by anyone who cared to take the time. When there was no one he would often resort to his own sorts of inquiries. Taking his father's lead he would conduct experiments and try learn things for himself. Sometimes his experiments would land him in a time out, or even a serious grounding from time to time. However his parents never resented the behavior, never told him to stop, just to be careful. Their son was smart, and wanted to learn, and that would never be a bad thing.

At least in their opinion.

Hamish had been on a particularly fun expedition on the school playground during his lunch hour before the incident occurred, the one that brought Sherlock rushing into the school's nurse's office. John was at the clinic and it sounded urgent. Lestrade would have other murders to solve, there would be other cases. That's what Sherlock had told himself anyway as he ran off the crime scene and shoved his gloves in Anderson's face. Hamish was sobbing loudly by the time the detective was by his side and he didn't show any signs of letting up soon.

"He hasn't said a word since his professor found him; he was just crying by the side of the playground, we can't seem to get him to stop."

The nurse informed him with a pitying glance at the tear stained mess of a child sitting on her cot. Sherlock nodded quickly before turning his attention to his son. He had never been very good at comforting people, especially children, but he couldn't stand to see the boy in such a state. With a bit of hesitance he wrapped one long arm around the tiny child and gave his best attempt at soothing noises. After no more than a moment Hamish clung to him, wiping a great deal of snot on his nice coat in the process. Sherlock ignored the unsanitary act for the time being to focus on the boy.

"Hamish… could you tell me what's wrong? You seem awfully upset."

The detective asked carefully as the boy burrowed further into his coat and made multiple sniffling noises. After a long pause Hamish lifted his head and his big wet blue eyes met the sharp grey ones above him that seemed to melt just at that simple exchange.

"I… I l-licked a frog."

He sputtered out frantically and then broke out into another pained sob.

"May I ask why it has affected you so deeply?"

Sherlock questioned incredulously. The nurse appeared just as confused as he did, but he didn't expect someone so dull to have any answers for him.

"An-anthony said that frogs tasted like peppermint, and that's why they're green. Which is silly, and I told him so, but I had to know for sure. So I licked the frog I found, but that was before I knew."

Hamish admitted shakily and Sherlock gripped tighter in response. He searched the boy's face for a moment before continuing.

"Before you knew what?"

Sherlock asked softly and the child trembled as he held ever tighter to his father's coat, as though by doing so he could will himself into a calmer state.

"Before I knew how they are deadly! Olivia told me so, she told me she read a book about it in the library that if you lick a frog you will die and I didn't know!"

Hamish shouted before breaking down into more sobs and the detective couldn't help but give a pitying smirk.

"Not all frogs love. Not all. Let me get a good look at you though, just to be safe."

Sherlock said, humoring the boy's naivety. He examined the boy's moist eyes which had perfectly normal pupils and his skin that looked just as pink and healthy as it always had and wiped the tears off the perfectly round cheeks that were still quivering just a bit with anxiety.

"No, you're not dying. In fact you look to be in perfect health to me."

Sherlock announced sweetly and Hamish smiled brightly at him as a result. The boy hugged him tightly and with a great sigh of relief.

* * *

No such relief would be found in the basement though, Hamish was sure of that.

"For setting him free."

Reta replied with ease as she studied the marks she'd made on the side of Hamish's face. Clearly her attentions were putting his dads on edge and his father was scrambling for ways to distract her, but the boy knew better than to think she'd be sidetracked now.

"Free from what?"

His dad spit out and the anger in his voice sent a chill down Hamish's spine. He thought about how his anger was similar to what he'd seen in the library the other day, how he'd never be able to properly apologize. It was the worst fight they'd ever had and he would probably never be able to explain how truly sorry he was.

* * *

Throughout Hamish's short life there had only been a few instances in which he truly feared that his parents would ever be so angry at him that they wouldn't forgive him, least of all his dad. His father was a hot tempered man who tended to be easily annoyed, especially when he was already in a mood. There had been plenty of times his father had become enraged with him for one thing or another, but he never stayed angry for very long, and most of the time Hamish felt so right in his way he was too angry to be bothered by it. However his dad was another story, his dad was laid back and often not so quick to anger. If he upset his dad it usually meant a great deal more since there was so little that really got to him.

A few things he knew of were the purchasing of milk (which always seemed to be running out in their home), conducting experiments on or near anything edible, and bothering his tea mug. That was the big one though, the tea mug. Not even his father dared tamper with the mug in which his dad would use for his numerous cups of tea throughout the day. Hamish didn't dare even touch the cup with how precious the thing seemed to be. It might have had something to do with its logo, which signified his dad's status as an army doctor. Or perhaps it was because he'd had several discussions with the consulting detective who liked to place things like thumbs in tea mugs and told him just what would happen if said thumbs wound up in that particular mug. Whatever it was about the ritual of having tea in that mug meant the world to the man.

This is why, when Hamish found himself in need of a drink, and unable to locate an able bodied parent, he took special precautions not to touch the mug. His dad was at the clinic, and his father was submerged in his mind palace, but that didn't stop him from getting thirsty. He knew his dad would be home in a matter of minutes, but he was sure he could do it himself. He was four years old after all, he wasn't a baby anymore, and he didn't need grownups to pour him drinks. With grace and elevated dexterity Hamish masterfully climbed up a chair and onto the kitchen counter, opening it with great care. His cup was just out of his reach, and, coincidentally, right behind his dad's mug. For a moment he paused, staring at this valuable treasure, and considered giving up his pursuit in favor of not risking the mug's safety. However he heard the door below shut, and he knew it was his dad, and his father was beginning to exit his mind palace, and he panicked. If he gave up then he would be a quitter, and a baby. That was simply inexcusable.

In a desperate last attempt he lunged for his cup. With a strangled cry he realized that he had not only grabbed hold of his cup but the mug as well and both were toppling overhead. Instinctively he covered his head just before he heard the deafening crash. His blue eyes peeled open to reveal the shattered remains of his dad's favorite mug. Just as the boy made his terrifying revelation his parents were rushing into the room at lightning speed.

"Hamish! Are you alright?"

His dad asked frantically as he grabbed hold of the small child and examined him. Hamish could do nothing but stare at the man in shock. He had broken the precious mug; did his dad not see that yet? What would he do when he did?

"Hamish, what happened?"

His father added with worry thick in his voice. Hamish stared at them and then down to the cup and then back to their concerned faces, and did his very best not to cry. Well… not too hard that is.

"I broke your mug."

The boy whimpered painfully as he studied his dad's eyes for any hint of anger.

"I see that, did it hit you?"

His dad asked and looked up and down the child's body once more for any sign of injury.

"No."

He admitted as a few tears escaped.

"Then why are you crying? Did it scare you?"

His father asked, clearly confused.

"I broke the mug. I broke your special mug. I did it on accident but it's broken, you can't put tea in it any more… do you hate me?"

Hamish answered with a few barely suppressed sobs. He couldn't stand the thought of his dad hating him, it hurt far too much, but he understood he'd broken a very important thing. He'd done something bad for sure.

"Hamish, of course I don't hate you. I could never hate you, especially not over a silly mug."

His dad reassured with a slight smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He wiped the tears from the boy's eyes and pressed a small kiss to the top of his head.

"Never?"

Hamish questioned timidly as he looked between is now smiling parents.

"Never."

* * *

Hamish considered that even if he did manage to get them all out alive (as unlikely as it seemed by that point) and apologized for everything he'd done, there was no way he could be forgiven for what he'd done. This wasn't some mug, this was their lives, and it was all his fault. Reta was brimming with delight as she watched the rage flicker across his dad's face and there was nothing he could do to stop her.

"Free from you of course, and all the boring things that come with you."

Reta explained with a cruel smile that made her almost glow with evil intent.

"She means to have him kill us."

His father pointed out with a mixture of epiphany and horror.

"Oh, you're very clever, yes that's the start. Once he gets rid of you two I can have him all to myself, then the real fun can begin."

Reta replied venomously and with a twitch in her eye that betrayed just how invested she was in that act.

"No! Hamish, it's going to be ok, we will get us out of here."

His dad protested hotly only to be met with a slap to the face.

"No more of this, I'm tired of waiting."

Reta complained and rushed over to one of the tables to retrieve a small hand gun and a hunting knife. She then held them in front of him with shaking hands and practically thrust them in his face.

"Which one? Pick one."

She demanded and Hamish took a moment to look into her eyes as she did so. The girl was out of her mind, and he couldn't help but pity her for a moment, though it was a hard task to do with his parents tied up in front of him. With one final nod of his head he knew that there was only one way out, and he was going to have to take a deep breath and just do it.

"The gun."

He said evenly despite the knot in his stomach and the way his heart was thundering away in his chest.

"There are only two bullets."

Reta explained, most likely as a warning to not try anything. Not that it would stop him.

"More than enough."

He answered smoothly and felt his body begin to tense as the guard at his side began untying him. His parents were watching with rapt attention and he wasn't sure what was going through their minds. Once he was up Reta smiled at him approvingly, her manic behavior cast off once again in an unsettlingly quick fashion. The girl leaned in close and let her lips brush the shell of his ear forcing shivers down his spine.

"Make me proud."

She whispered before hurrying off to the stairs.

"I'll be watching."

She called out pointing to the camera located in the corner and Hamish nodded in understanding as he stood from his chair. The guard handed him the gun and took a few steps back, as did the guards standing by his dads sides.

"We have a half hour, we can get out of this, don't worry."

His dad said in a harsh whisper.

"With two bullets? This is worse than the time you came to save me from that Chinese mob."

His father countered bitterly.

"I got you out didn't I? We just need to think."

His dad continued roughly. It killed Hamish to see them that way, and he hoped they would understand, but they wouldn't be willing to go as far as he would.

"I already thought about it. There's only one way out that doesn't end in you two being tortured."

Hamish chimed in finally and with only a small quiver in his voice. He raised the gun and for a moment it was suspended in air as the three of them stared at it. Both his parent then looked up to him with questioning glances and Hamish bit back tears as he took one last glimpse of them.

"I'm sorry."

He said softly. Before either of them could react Hamish lifted the gun in one quick move and pressed the muzzle of the gun to his right temple.

"Hamish!"

His dad shouted frantically as he tried to move towards him.

"Let them go, or I will shoot myself."

He threatened with the most stern voice he could muster. The guards in the room began closing in on him and he clicked the safety off.

"I mean it! One more step and my brains are all over the basement floor. This is my move. I refuse to play by your rules. I'm a Watson, I make my own."

Hamish declared as he stared into the camera. Reta's shrieks of rage could be heard ringing off the basement walls and everyone went still for a moment. Finally there was a thundering of footsteps and the girl was at the bottom of the stairs with a rage in her eyes that had no rival.

"Put that gun down, we both know you're not going to kill yourself."

She scathed as the guards surrounded her as a means of some sort of human force-field.

"Want to bet?"

Hamish retorted and pressed his finger more firmly to the trigger.

"Don't do this Hamish!"

His dad shouted, but Hamish didn't dare look at him, he knew if he did it would be all over.

"Listen to your daddy, put the gun down."

Reta spit out angrily.

"Let my dads go and I will."

He replied smoothly and he could see the girl's eye twitching once again. There was a moment of silence as she considered what she said and everyone's eyes were glued to the boy with the gun to his own head. Eventually Reta broke that silence after she'd thought over the situation.

"No."

At that Hamish did look back at his dads and he could see the pain in their eyes, and the love, and everything he'd let Reta trick him into thinking hadn't been there. It had though, and it was so clear in that moment that he would have slapped himself for being so blind if it wouldn't have been so inappropriate. He knew this was the only chance his dads had at surviving. He'd been sure Reta wouldn't risk his life, but clearly she's decided to try and call his bluff. What she didn't know was that he couldn't have been more intent on delivering. With him out of the way his parents wouldn't have to worry about anything but themselves. They could get out somehow, especially with a decent enough distraction. He smiled weakly at them before he closed his eyes and felt the full weight of the gun in his hand for what seemed like the first time.

A single shot rang out in the dingy basement.


	19. Chapter 19

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 19**

**Sorry for the wait!  
**

There might have been four Thursdays John couldn't forget, but there were moments, not many of them but they were there, that he wished he could erase. For the longest time if you had asked, and if he had been willing to answer you properly, he'd say that the most terrifying moment in his life had been watching Sherlock jump off of St. Bart's. He might have even mentioned that he had spent a great deal of time trying to delete that sight from his mind, that some nights it still haunted him, that there were times even after his husband's return that he found himself shaking with the memory of those lifeless eyes staring up at him. However in that basement, watching his son press the muzzle of a gun to his temple, he knew right away he'd never want to see this again. That the image of his son shaking with the weight of a decision that he was not old enough to make would stick to the undersides of his eye lids for years to come. There was no amount of therapy or alcohol or even magic that would destroy that moment from his mind, and it wasn't even the only one. No, the moments to follow were even more horrific. Even though he knew they would be, even though he knew they would just be more moments clinging to his soul and weighing him down until he was crushed under the weight of what he saw that day, he could not look away. His eyes were glued to that gun, and to his son's innocent face and everything seemed to be moving so slow and yet too fast all at the same time.

He could do nothing but watch the shallow breaths being sucked down Hamish's throat and expelled so rapidly John was reminded of how breathless the boy would make himself in the throes of a fit. Except this was all wrong, John could soothe him through a fit, he could take away whatever was scaring or upsetting him, he could make it all better. At least he could when the things after his son were imaginary monsters or obnoxious peers. Not now, not when it mattered most, not when there was a gun and a bullet that were getting ready to tear away the most precious thing in his world. His son, his boy, his baby. The universe had no right to allow this, no right to take Hamish away from him. No right at all.

When the shot rang out and reverberated within the confines of John's mind, he screamed. He wasn't aware of this until much later when Sherlock would tell him; would talk about that horrible moment and how the only noise that could possibly rival the loud bang of the gun sounding off was John's pained shriek. However he did scream and it was the closest thing that would ever come to expressing what he felt in that moment. He could feel that bullet; he could feel it as though it was piercing his own flesh, his heart. Perhaps Sherlock had been quicker, perhaps he had known what was about to happen, maybe that helped him be prepared. Maybe it alleviated the shock that pummeled into John so fast the air in his lungs was forced out in a tremendous gasp. Now would have been a great time for one of those bloody orange blankets John noted later on, but at the moment all he wanted was his son. Because Hamish was bleeding so profusely, and there was nothing he could do to stop all that blood from escaping that small body.

As realization struck and the shock slowly began to shake from his system he released one high pitched groan of relief; because that blood wasn't springing forth from the boy's head where the gun was just a moment before. There was one bullet sized hole through Hamish's right hand, his non-dominant hand, and it was gushing blood. The boy returned the gun to the side of his head and did his best to hide the pain thrumming through his body. John could see it though, each tremor starting from the tips of Hamish's finger tips and ending with near violent spasms in his knees. He made no noise though, to his credit, and his face showed no signs of discomfort apart from the twitch forming in his left eye. Adrenaline may have diminished the pain, there could have been a layer of shock softening the blow, but John could feel that wound as if it were his own.

Silence followed John's earth shattering scream until finally it was broken by the sound of an unnatural growl. A sound that the doctor would have been far more inclined to say belonged to a hell hound rather than a sixteen year old girl. The look in her eyes was far more vicious than anything John could even imagine being on any beast, even one from hell. Her fists were clenched and her eyes were darting between the gun and Hamish's injured hand.

"Warning shot. Only one bullet left, so I wouldn't test me anymore if I were you." Hamish threatened with a stern voice that John was sure sounded extremely familiar.

"_Hamish_." Sherlock hissed out with a combination of relief and rage as a means of a warning. The warning went ignored and Hamish did not even spare the detective a glance.

"Why are you doing this? If they leave here today I will only get them another. You're only prolonging the inevitable." Henrietta snarled and gnashed her teeth like a wild animal. All things considered she was probably closer to being a wild animal than a human any way.

"Maybe I am, but I'd still prefer that to rolling over and letting you have your way with me." Hamish retorted as he held his ground. John might have expressed how proud he was in that moment to see his son act so brave in the face of danger, if he weren't so terrified and focused on how dangerous it was. Henrietta had a different opinion however, and she responded by ripping the gun out of one of her guard's holsters and promptly shooting him in the back of his head. The man's blood and brain matter splattered across the room and John could feel the warm spray land on his face and in his hair. Sherlock had been equally doused in the man's blood and winced when the man's body slammed to the ground and released another spurt of blood. The other guards hardly blinked, though they tensed immensely. Hamish took a step back from where the body landed and did his best to keep his eyes focused on the girl.

"LOOK WHAT YOU MADE ME DO!" She howled and waved the gun around in Hamish's direction as if he had put it in her hand. John could feel himself tense even more with the gun being handled so poorly and feared for the worst. Sherlock appeared to be watching her from the corner of his eye but he was far more concerned with studying the room. The detective was likely looking for any chance of an escape, an idea John fully supported. Whenever he attempted to do the same his eyes caught on Hamish and he found it difficult to pull them away. From what he could see there was only one way out, and that was the door being blocked by the mass of body guards and one insane girl.

"I didn't make you do anything; you did all this to yourself. Just let my parents go and we can talk about this." Hamish said carefully after a few moments of tense silence.

"No! Hamish, we're not leaving without you!" John cried out, unable to contain himself any longer. He couldn't fathom leaving his son alone with that girl, not for a second. Hamish spared him a quick glance but said nothing; clearly he didn't feel the issue was up for debate. An act that made John both infuriated and proud.

"Your dad seems a bit reluctant; perhaps you'd like to rethink the matter? I'm sure they wouldn't mind a quick shot to the head. Though you've wasted one of your bullets already, so there'd be some real fun involved with whoever is second in line." Henrietta growled vindictively from behind her line of guards whose hands were hovering over their guns now and putting John even further on edge.

"My dad's not the one with the gun. I'm counting to ten. Let them go, or I shoot myself in the head." Hamish declared in a dark tone that made John's blood run cold.

"Don't do this Hamish!" John called out frantically, desperately wishing there were some feasible way out of that basement that got his son as far away from that gun as possible.

"Listen to your daddy." Henrietta snapped as her fingers twitched around her gun.

"One." Was Hamish's response to the panic spiraling around the room. John wasn't sure his heart could beat any faster than it already was but it certainly didn't stop the bugger from trying. With every passing moment he could feel himself drawing closer to a heart attack, he just hoped it waited until after Hamish was back home.

"I need more time!" Sherlock whispered harshly to himself. The man's eyes were shut tight and he appeared to be navigating through his mind palace. John prayed that something came to fruition in time, anything that could stop the nightmare that was unraveling around them.

"Two." Hamish continued as both Henrietta and Sherlock scrambled to find a way around the gun pressed to the boy's temple.

"Don't do this Hamish, think about what you're doing, everything you're throwing away!" Henrietta urged hysterically.

"Fuck you, three." Hamish responded bitterly. John felt as though the earth was crumbling away from beneath him. Three had never seemed like a big number but now it was tearing down buildings, crashing through earth and stone in his mind. There was nothing he wouldn't trade to be rid of that number, of all the numbers so that his son would just stop counting. "Four, nearly half way there now Reta. If you don't do something fast you'll be scraping me off the walls, good luck using me then." Hamish taunted the girl, but the words seemed to have just as much of an effect on the two men still tied up on the floor, not daring to make a move.

"Alright, alright! Stop! Stop, I-I can't have you killing yourself, you're too important. You're half of me, I can't take over anything with only half of myself. I'll let your parents go today, but this is only a temporary fix you know, and you can't hold that gun to your head forever." Henrietta answered quickly. John wasn't sure if he should be relieved or panic more. He didn't want his son in the house alone, he didn't want to leave him, but that gun was the scariest he'd ever seen. He wanted it gone, he wanted it melted down and disintegrated. He wanted nothing to be left of the wretched thing that was so close to stealing his son from this world.

"Fair enough. But I need to see them go; I need to be sure they make it out ok." Hamish informed the girl carefully. Henrietta nodded stiffly and motioned for her guards to free the detective and his husband. Once the ropes had been removed from John's arms and he was allowed to stand up he very nearly broke into a sprint to snatch that gun away from his son. Sherlock held him back though, a warning in his eye that told him no. He could have gone into a rage.

"Up the stairs then, shall we?" Henrietta chirped in a voice that was laced in far too much fury to hold any of the sweetness she had intended. Henrietta led the way up the stairs and the guards pushed John and Sherlock along in front of them. Hamish remained at the back of the line, a smart strategical move John noted. It's just what he would have done. When they reached the top of the stairs the door swung open and the air caught in John's lungs. There was a gun, several guns, pointing at them. He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, but he very nearly did both.


	20. Chapter 20

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 20  
**

**School work, sorry, enjoy!  
**

Several government issued guns being held by some of the best trained men in the country may have made most people turn into a pile of terrified goop, but then most people aren't nearly as insane or driven as Henrietta Moriarty. She didn't even take a moment to hesitate, without any warning she opened fire on the men whose guns were directed at her. An act which Hamish could only describe as insanity, though Reta would argue otherwise. She managed to shoot two officers before a bullet pierced her left hand and sent the gun plummeting to the ground. It took a matter of seconds for the men to begin swarming the door, aiming their guns at the guards heads who hadn't even had the chance to pull their own guns out yet.

They quickly emptied the stair case and the guards were cuffed and restrained along with Reta who was screaming profanities. Hamish was the last one out of course and by the time he reached the top of the stairs the gun hand landed somewhere on the stair case and his knees were about ready to give out. He expected to land on the floor in about three seconds, though that never happened. His dad was holding him before his knees could even think about crashing to the floor; the older man's knees had no such luck. In the instant that his dad grabbed him he dropped to the ground himself, gripping the boy to his chest as if his life depended on it. There was a moment where he felt so overwhelmed with his emotions that he did not know how to react. The pain from his bleeding hand, the stress from the day, his guilt at what he'd done all pooled together in his stomach, at first he was sure he'd vomit. Except there was also this strong sense of relief, and the undeniable comfort of having his dad hug him tight. In the end the only thing he could think to do was reach his arms around and reciprocate the hug. He buried his head into the crook of his dad's neck and shut his eyes tight.

It hurt his hand to grip so tightly and he was sure he was getting blood on his dad's jumper, but he didn't care at the moment. What he really wanted was for his dad to just make the past month go away; to destroy it, make it so it'd never happened. A ridiculous wish to be sure, but he couldn't help but hope. At some point he had started crying, though he'd only noticed when he'd shifted his face and discovered how wet his dad's jumper was becoming. He was quiet about it though, so he could still hear Reta screaming just outside the house. With great effort he attempted to drown her out to concentrate on the hushed conversation between his father and his uncle. Clearly it had been his uncle who had come to the rescue, he couldn't have been more grateful. Though he was sure that he would want to have a word with him too.

The two brothers were speaking so that Hamish could really make out only a few words over his dad's and his own heavy breathing. He was positive he'd heard something about the D.I. his dad had had worked with for so long, Mr. Lestrade, his uncle always seemed to be dragging him into their family business. His father had a few theories about that but his dad never let Hamish hear any of them. At any rate it was nice to know that they were working with people who knew them, who wouldn't be so harsh with him. At least he hoped. He desperately wished to hear everything that his father was saying so he could know how angry he was. His father could be stringent at times, and he was sure this would be no exception. After what he'd said at the hospital he could feel the two of them drifting apart, he wondered if this was the final straw. He was not related to his father by blood, and he was nowhere near as smart as the man would like him to be (of this he was sure). How much would it take to finally fall out of his good graces? Not much he supposed, especially since he'd put both him and his dad in danger. If there was one person on this earth who his father loved it was his dad, the man was hard to please and guarded his heart better than anyone. So risking his dad's life was something of a sin, an unspoken rule that should have never been broken. Yet there he was, just narrowly escaping what could have been his parent's demise.

His dad had to still love him, he just had to. Hamish gripped tighter just in case, but he felt that his dad was too loyal a man to stop. Besides the word's the doctor kept muttering softly into his ear were those of love and comfort. That didn't mean his father wouldn't have any sway. The two men loved each other more than anything, a love that Hamish had often dreamed of finding himself one day, which he'd thought he was beginning to feel for Reta. His father would probably arrange something with his uncle to have him shipped out to some military school to spend his days doing pushups in the mud and being screamed at by overly muscular men. He might even take away his paints, especially after what Reta had done with his paintings. What an irony, to have ensured it was not his painting hand that he hurt only to never be allowed to paint again. He might have laughed if the thought weren't so horrid. Though it would be what he deserved. Hamish was never one to admit fault so early but in this case it was evident, he had been wrong on a number of levels. Enough that taking away his paints might be justified.

When his dad began to loosen his hold and move away the boy let out a soft noise in protest. However when he looked up he saw that it was because a paramedic had come over to look at his hand. His dad held onto the uninjured hand as the man did his best to clean the wound and wrap it until they could go to the hospital to have it looked at. Hamish wondered if he would always have the grotesque hole in his hand or if it would seal itself. He wasn't entirely sure which he'd prefer either. At the moment though it wasn't his top priority, he was far more concerned with how his dad and father would react once the shock had worn off. One look at his dad told him that he at least had yet to get angry, and that was of some comfort, only he didn't know how long that would last. His father was staring at him with his heavy gaze when he turned to him and he quickly turned away to avoid eye contact, he wasn't sure he could handle it quite yet. For the moment he decided it would be best to keep quiet and try not to cause a fuss.

/

It had taken longer than he would have liked to have his hand examined and stitched but it was done in enough time. Once again his uncle's medical resources came in handy and he found himself in his own room. His dad hadn't let go of him since they'd escaped the basement, and though he was sitting in a chair beside him holding his hand and stroking it soothingly, he could see the need building in him to hug again. Not many knew just how dependent his dad could be on hugs, he suspected it had something to do with the jumpers. His father was standing pensively in the corner however and hadn't said a word, not one. From a man of his nature it was rather unsettling. Hamish would have preferred it if he had yelled, screamed, or hollered at him. Anything but the silence. His dad was the exact opposite, chattering away about how he was so happy they all got out ok, how brave Hamish had been, how worried he had been, how much he loved him.

None of that made the pit in his stomach any smaller. All he could think about was his father's silence and everything he'd done to deserve it. He wondered if he had any hope at all of ever making it up to him, he doubted it. His throat was tight and his eyes were burning, nothing his dad said or did made it hurt any less. The guilt he felt was consuming him and he feared it always would. The image of his dad and father tied in the basement would haunt him till the end of his days. He knew that and it he hadn't even made it through his first day yet, but the fact was glaringly obvious. His father's gaze said it all, and he would have said anything to make it better, only there was nothing he could say. So far all he had managed was sorry, he didn't have the strength to even explain his side of the story yet, though no one had really forced the issue. His dad said Mr. Lestrade would be in the next day for a statement.

Finally after another hour alone in the room his father broke the silence by announcing "I have to go, I have to discuss some things with Mycroft."

"So soon? Couldn't it wait?" his dad questioned with some apprehension. He had gone tense as had Hamish and the two of them stared at the man intently as he moved over to the door.

"I'm afraid it can't wait." He replied simply, not offering any further explanation. "I will try to be back before the night is through." The detective continued and then left the room with a swoosh of his coat. Hamish and his dad watched the door for a moment in silence before his dad spoke up.

"He will be back soon I'm sure, there's probably just something about this he wants to see to, don't worry." His dad reassured him and tried to take away some of the tenseness out of the boy. It fell flat though, Hamish knew this had to do with himself. He'd angered his father.

"Sure." He managed to croak out as his throat threatened to close up all together. His dad noticed it immediately and squeezed the boy's hand tighter.

"Don't despair, trust me. He loves you, just as much as I do, he just processes things differently. Give him time." His dad continued before leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. Hamish accepted his words with a nod and snuggled into his pillow to stare up at the ceiling. He didn't believe his dad for a second, but it was nice to hear him say it. For a little while he would try to accept it as truth, just long enough to get some sleep. It had been a long day and his body felt heavy with sleep, his dad's seemed to be too. He wondered if he should offer a spot on his bed, though he was a bit old to be snuggling up to his dad he mused, and didn't want to think what might be said if a nurse walked in. He was no child, he'd just out smarted a psychopathic crime lord after all. As he stared off and considered all this he wondered where his father was going if his dad was right, and just when the man would be back. He closed his eyes and imagined it would be soon.


	21. Chapter 21

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 21  
**  
**Dead! Sorry, ugh, just so much going on!**

Sherlock Holmes was a man who knew a great many things. One of these things was his own person. Sherlock had prided himself in having a good sense of who he was; though he at times struggled with his own emotions he understood his mind. There times that he was wrong about himself however. For instance, he had been certain he was incapable of loving another person. Except then he met John and that changed everything. Then there were other times, times in which he was very right. This was one of those times.

He could think back to the precise moment when he'd come to this conclusion, and yet here he was. It had been years ago, long before this mess had started. When he'd been sitting in that little Inn during the case in Baskerville and John had been talking to that therapist. That was when he had realized that Sherlock Holmes was not the sort of man you had help you raise your children. And as he looked over John and Hamish's sleeping forms he knew that he had been right, he could feel it in his gut. He was not cut out to be raising children, he never had been.

* * *

There were too many things going through his mind at that moment to concentrate on anything for a reasonable amount of time. Besides, he couldn't think in hospital rooms and he had other matters to attend to other than watching Hamish lie in bed and stare at the walls. The boy couldn't even make eye contact with him, it bothered him greatly. So he'd left, and in a hurry too, not bothering to tell John where he was going. That didn't matter, he wouldn't pay attention anyway, he only had eyes for the boy right now. There would be no use trying to talk to him about anything other than their son. So he left and made his way over to where they'd been staying for the past month, he was certain to find Mycroft there.

Sure enough when he arrived Mycroft was waiting in the parlor with a nice glass of scotch and a sour look on his face. If he were a more ordinary man he may have been prepared to thank his brother for everything he'd provided for them. However he was no ordinary man and he had no plans to thank the politician for anything. He walked into the room and observed his brother for a moment before taking the arm chair opposite him. Mycroft's eyes skimmed over him as he did and then settled back on a spot out the window.

"I assume you found our conversation at the girl's manor unsatisfactory." Mycroft said skipping over any pleasantries he might have used at another time.

"Obviously." Sherlock snapped loudly almost jumping from his chair from indignation. "You slapped together some half-baked lie and expected me to just believe it?" He sneered viciously once he'd composed himself enough.

"I assure you I meant no harm." Mycroft replied softly. Sherlock scoffed crossly and this time did stand from his seat to pace the room.

"No harm, you meant no harm. Well that's-I find that bloody amusing considering my son is in the hospital with a bullet wound!" Sherlock shouted and had half a mind to snatch the brandy glass from his brother's hand and smash it on the ground.

"It had to be done, I had no other choice." Mycroft said defensively and balled up his free hand at his side.

"You had choices! You could have chosen to tell me you were planning something so dangerous, you could have found a way for Hamish not to be involved at all!" Sherlock argued loud enough he was sure the night staff could hear him from each corner of the house.

"It was a necessary evil; I would have consulted you if I didn't think you would be conflicted, him being your son-"

"And he's_ your_ nephew! Did you think of his safety at all? Or did you just put queen and country first as usual?" Sherlock questioned harshly, coming close enough that he could stare directly into his brother's eyes. Mycroft sat silent for a while, holding the detective's stare until he could bear it no longer and cast his gaze to the ground.

"I did what was needed." Mycroft stated roughly and finally set his drink aside and clasped his hands together at his lap. A force of habit taught to him at a young age to control his temper, something he often did around Sherlock.

"No, you did what was easy. You discovered that girl's fascination with Hamish and you used it as bait! You knew what was happening from the start, you just needed the proof. Now you have it don't you, the confessions you were looking for, access to her house and all the files inside. You lead Hamish into that house; let him walk right out of this one and towards the killer. I was fooled for a while, I thought you were really losing it letting your organization be overrun, but it was all a part of the plan. You wanted her to think she was winning, you let it all happen and just sat back and watched." Sherlock ranted harshly and spun around quickly to stare at the wall rather than his brother. He could trust himself not to hit the man as his emotions ran to high. He clasped his hands behind his back and tried to control his anger from boiling over.

"I owe you a thousand apologies." Mycroft said simply and when Sherlock turned to face him he could see pain in the man's eyes. It wasn't enough to be sorry though, it just wasn't good enough.

"What did you think was going to happen? Did you honestly think I would stay in the dark forever? Or that she wouldn't escalate? What if Hamish had-" Sherlock roared until his voice cracked and he had to shake his head to continue. "What if he had been _killed_."

"My men were on hand, they wouldn't have allowed it." Mycroft explained.

"Well they took their bloody time didn't they?" Sherlock yelled unimpressed. He huffed out a few harsh breaths while Mycroft sat in silence again until he couldn't take it any longer. "Sod this, I'm going back to check up on my son who happens to be in the hospital no thanks to you!" Sherlock snarled before storming out of the manor.

* * *

When Sherlock re-entered the hospital room John was sleeping in his chair, his head resting on the bed by Hamish's stomach and his hand holding tightly to the boy's hand. The detective looked over the two sleeping forms and soon a smile was tugging at the corners of his lips. He moved closer and brushed a hand over his son's face, pushing aside any stray locks of brown hair that had been misplaced while he slept. Hamish's eyebrows were making a crease in his forehead that looked identical to his dad's. The two Watson boys, always so thoughtful, even in their sleep. Sherlock often wondered what they dreamed of, and would always hope that it wasn't a nightmare. They were both prone to them and he found it hard to relate as normally slept undisturbed by images of any sort, one of the many reasons he'd never been fond of sleeping.

He pulled the other chair up to the bed and watched as the two of them snored away. As he looked from their sleeping faces and to the bandaged hand resting by his side he frowned deeply. His son's injury caused him a flurry of unwanted emotion. He blinked away what was the start of what he could only assume were tears. He refused to cry, there was no reason, Hamish was fine now. What was worse was that it was by no means of his own. Trapped down in that basement he couldn't even properly insert himself into his mind palace, not with that gun in his son's hand. Not when that psychopath was trying to kill his family. If it weren't for Hamish's quick thinking or his brother's men who knows where'd they be right now.

He'd never imagined that he'd feel so conflicted for a child before. When he'd first laid eyes on the boy he wasn't even sure he'd be capable of loving him. He'd known he was never going to be parent material, he'd never planned on reproducing. Sherlock had always assumed he'd never bond properly with the child, or that they would become a nuisance, in later years he figured he would become jealous of the attention they received from John. However he never would have guessed that his bad parenting would be because his emotions were too strong. He'd grown so attached to Hamish that he couldn't think properly when his life was at risk, which put him in more danger.

Sherlock wasn't cut out for parenting, not in the least. Not when just the sight of that bandage put him on edge. He'd never be able to hear the name Henrietta again without flinching. This boy had come into his life much like his dad, as a pure fluke, and yet like John he had also won his heart. Something he'd once determined impossible. Now they'd settled themselves deep within, rooted themselves to his very core so well that they've become instrumental. His heart wouldn't beat without them, of this he is sure, even though the idea is so illogical it's laughable. He hadn't been so sure of this until he came so close to losing them that he could feel his heart slowing, each beat thrumming out a solemn farewell. All three of them had come close to death that day and Sherlock knew it, he knew it better than he knew the wing-speed-velocity of the average honey bee. That kernel of knowledge still made his hands tremble. How could he possibly manage being a father when the emotions involved were tearing him apart?


	22. Chapter 22

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 22  
**  
**Going to reference something from 'Four Thursdays', just a heads up...Fixed!**

The room was silent save for the murmurs that slipped through the hospital door. Hamish sat and debated between trying to listen in and trying to go back to sleep. His dad wasn't allowed to take him on as a patient for ethical reasons, but that didn't stop him from discussing everything he could with the doctor's. His father had remained silent around him still, this marking the third day, though he was apparently raising hell with the nursing staff. Or so his dad said, Hamish hadn't seen any outburst personally and doubted how much it had to do with him and figured it was more to do with his father's hatred for hospitals. It was far more likely he was bored than anything else. Whatever the reason it really didn't matter because clearly his father hadn't lost the ability to talk and yet the moment he walked into the room his mouth sealed shut.

They were going home on that day and Hamish wondered if the silence would break once they entered their flat. He also wondered if he wanted it to. He'd always been more for action, for getting things done and over with. He'd never liked skirting around an issue, no matter how controversial. Yet, this was different. Of course he hated the silence, the way his father's eyes would avoid his and how it reminded him of everything he'd done. There was a certain level of comfort to it though, because whatever his father was thinking hadn't been said yet. Whatever he felt about Hamish now, however angry or disappointed he was; it was still all hypothetical. For as long as the silence stretched out Hamish could at least pretend that his father wasn't as angry as he was. He could have a few more days without knowing for a fact that he had ruined their relationship indefinitely.

When his dad reemerged he had a smile on his face and it was the first in a while that managed to make it all the way to his eyes. His father trailed behind him quietly, always quietly, not even the rustle of his clothing dared reach Hamish's ears. The boy tried his best to duplicate the smile though he didn't accomplish that with much accuracy and his dad's smile faltered because of it. He made his way over to Hamish's bed and sat at the end of it. His calloused hand moved hesitantly to clasp the boy's uninjured hand.

"The doctor said we can go home now, your father already fetched you some of your clothes earlier. It's safe to go back to the flat now, so as soon as you're dressed we can head back." His dad reported softly. Hamish nodded in understanding, though were he in better standing with his parents he might have pointed out that these were all fairly obvious statements. It didn't take a genius to observe. "Mrs. Hudson is excited to see you." His dad added carefully, probably doing his best to cheer up his son. Hamish wished for his sake that it had worked.

"I'll get dressed then." Hamish answered quietly before moving out of the cheap hospital sheets bundled around him and onto the cold tiled floor. He made his way over to the clothes that had been folded on one of the chairs and then into the bathroom to change. His dad was speaking again in whispers but he didn't bother to try and listen. Instead he focused on slipping out of the thin hospital gown. He chanced a look in the mirror and his reflection frowned at him. There were circles under his eyes and the scratches on his cheek and neck had begun to scab over. He looked paler than usual, almost as pale as his father. His eyes looked drained and far more dull than usual, and they looked sad. He cursed himself for looking sad, he didn't have the right. He hadn't even been able to manage a decent apology to his dad yet. It was likely he'd ever manage one for his father.

He turned away from his reflection and back to the clothes his father had brought. A pair of jeans and a jumper Mrs. Hudson had given him for Christmas. He'd never been overly fond of jumpers; in fact he often teased his dad for wearing them so often. However he liked this one, it reminded him of one of the only Christmas's that went perfect. No case, no rogue experiments, no arguments. Just his small family cozy in their flat and enjoying their holiday together, he'd smiled the whole day even though Mrs. Hudson had made him where those antlers. It was probably presumptuous to think he'd ever experience another like it.

He put on the clothes quickly and exited the bathroom to find his dad cutting himself off mid-sentence. His parents stepped away from each other and cast their eyes towards the boy. It was an odd silence that filled the room and Hamish suspected it would follow him the rest of his life. This continued silence that was filled to the brim with words unsaid, things that were begging to be set free but never would. The silence was tightening around him and left him feeling suffocated until his father swept out of the room with his usual dramatic flare and left Hamish and his dad to suffer alone in the silence. Finally his dad cleared his throat and made his way towards the boy.

"Ready to go then?" The man asked carefully and when Hamish nodded he smiled weakly in response. "Good. Good... Hamish, I want you to know that I was speaking with your doctor and we both think that you may benefit from some counseling."

"Whatever you think is best." Hamish replied honestly. He was really willing to do whatever it took to save his relationship with his dad, he wouldn't refuse any help that the man want to give. His dad observed him for a tick and then came closer to pull him into a hug.

"It may not seem like it now, but therapy is a great help in gaining closure on things like this... you know, it's helped me too." Hamish nodded against his dad's warm chest. He'd known from off handed comments his uncle made that his dad had once been in therapy, he wasn't entirely sure why but he assumed it had something to do with his strange childhood or army years. "You know, I didn't learn to drive until you were three years old." His dad continued and Hamish furrowed his eye brows. That seemed like a completely odd statement given the conversation, but he chose to stay silent and listen. "When I was a young boy, a few years younger than you are now, my mum left me home with my dad and your aunt Harriet. Only your aunt was going through a phase-one that lasted about twenty years-and left to go to a party while my dad was sleeping. I knew if my dad found out he'd… be angry, so I decided to go get her before he noticed she'd left. I got in the car, and I tried to drive to her friend's house, only I got into an accident."

His dad took a deep breath and backed away so that he could have a better look at Hamish. The boy looked up with confusion swimming in his eyes. He'd never heard many stories of his dad's childhood, but from what he had heard it wasn't good. Hamish had often wondered what led his dad to run off to the city and he wondered if somehow his own recent trauma had made them closer.

"The accident wasn't so bad, I got out of it with a few cuts and bruises. Nothing new… but it terrified me, and I let that fear rule over me for far too long. It wasn't until I talked about it with Ella that I was able to even think about driving again. You should think of therapy as a tool, use it to help you work through what's happened, ok? I haven't scheduled anything yet, but I want you to think about it." His dad finished and placed another kiss to his forehead and smiled fondly. "Now let's get home. I'll make you a cup of tea and we can all sit down and talk about this before your father tries to delete it." The doctor huffed out lightly as he led them out of the hospital room. Hamish hoped desperately that it was going to be one hell of a strong cup of tea.

* * *

The tea was most certainly not strong enough. He drank it anyway and watched carefully as his Dad sat down in his chair and his father stood stiffly in the middle of the room. For a moment Hamish wished the sofa would swallow him whole, but he supposed that would be a waste of a perfectly good cup of tea and continued to sip as he ignored the growing knot in his stomach. His dad took a gulp of his own tea before setting it aside and clearing his throat.

"Let's talk about what happened shall we?" The doctor called out as casually as he could manage. Hamish flicked his gaze towards his feet and decided tea be damned he wanted the sofa to have its way with him. There was no way he wanted to talk about this ever again. However he knew an explanation was owed. He had nearly gotten his parents killed after all.

"What would you like to know first?" Hamish successfully squeaked out and cursed his underdeveloped voice for sounding so tiny.

"Well how about we start with the basics, hmm? We just want to know everything that happened… We're concerned about you and we want to know how this happened and how we can make it right." His dad answered back calmly. His dad always had a way of making everything sound just fine, like there was nothing to fear. His father on the other hand was setting him on edge with the way he stared, and of course the ever present silence.

"I'm not sure where to begin… I was sneaking out to see Reta. I didn't know she was… up to anything. She was trying to help m-well she said she was trying to help me-and wanted paintings in exchange for information." Hamish said tentatively as he tried to study the intricacies of his socks.

"Information?" His dad questioned and Hamish looked up to see the wheels turning inside the man's head.

"Um, yeah. Stuff about… you… and my mom." Hamish admitted timidly. If at all possible his father became even more rigid and his dad appeared to tense as well. A result that did not come as a surprise but made him feel uneasy all the same.

"I see… Hamish, I know this must seem difficult to understand, why we didn't tell you, but we were only trying to think of what was best. Of course if you had come to me and asked I would have done my best to explain… when you were younger I didn't think you were ready to know, I wasn't sure how you would take it. Your mother and I are still good friends, you've met her a few times, but I didn't want you to feel hurt by her decision. She wasn't ready to have a child yet, and there is no shame in that. She did what she thought was best and I think everything worked out for the better. I'm sorry that you had to find out this way but I hope you understand none of this was done to hurt you." His dad tries to explain and Hamish wishes it did something to make him feel better. It's too late though, Hamish has figured most of these things out for himself already, partially through the conversation they had in the library. What it does is serve as another example of what a mistake he made in listening to Reta.

"I know." Hamish replies weakly because it is the only thing he can think to say. The boy looks down at his cup of tea and silently urges it to be stronger so that he can be stronger and so that the prickling sensation in his eyes would go away.

"Hey." His dad says and it sounds far closer than Hamish would have thought. His dad had moved so that he was resting on his knees in front of Hamish and smiling hesitantly up at him. "We're not angry you know. Not at you. You snuck out, and of course it was dangerous and reckless and if you ever do anything like that again I'm going to lock you in your room the rest of your life… but you're still our son. Nothing you do could ever make us love you less; nothing could make us mad at you long, especially if it was partially out fault. I should have been watching you better; I should have noticed something was wrong. I'm sorry I didn't, I'm sorry you had to go through this and that you were ever in that girl's basement… and I want you to know how proud and terrified I was when you stood your ground. You were a regular Watson back there, I wouldn't expect any less. So don't think that I'm angry at you, because I'm not. We love you, nothing will change that." His dad finishes and expertly removes Hamish's tea so that he can properly hug the boy. Hamish is shocked for a moment but then quickly wraps his arms tightly around his dad's solid form. He smelled of tea and musky old jumpers and it's probably the most comforting scent in the world and Hamish wished he could hold onto it until the tightening in his chest went away, only it feels too soon that his dad is pulling away. Hamish's cheeks were wet and he blamed that on the jumper being far too soft and comforting. "It's been a long month. Run along and grab a quick shower and I'll order some take-away."

* * *

Chinese food probably has the same affects as his dad's old jumpers, because he's lying in bed and he can't stop blubbering. It is completely unhelpful and serves no purpose but to irritate him further. However every time he tried to stem the flow of tears he just recalled how understanding his dad was and just how little he deserved a son who'd betrayed him. Worse was that despite all the 'we' being said his father had yet to say a word. It was likely that his father was less keen to forgive him given the course of events. Not only had Hamish put all their lives at risk he had blamed his father for being responsible for the attack on his dad. He'd always found earning his father's affection and approval hard, he was sure now that he'd lost any chance at ever gaining it again. Perhaps if he was lucky his father would delete everything that had happened and they could just pretend everything was fine. Despite his wishes there was a light tap at his door before his father entered his room. Hamish barely had time to wipe his eyes before the door was shut again and his father was standing awkwardly by the side of his bed. Hamish looked up behind red rimmed eyes and silently urged his father to either speak or leave. Apparently the man decided on the later, though it took him a while to do so.

"You and your dad are very alike." The detective started quietly, keeping his eyes trained on the window in the corner of the room. "You both managed to make me care for you despite my previous beliefs that such a feat was impossible. You both have also found a way to use that admiration to terrify me." His father practically spit out. Hamish flinched at the tone in the man's voice and reflexively burrowed further into his blankets. "You both act as though nothing can touch you, that you are invincible, that you can play the hero and everything will turn out just fine but it won't! Look at your hand! Think what could have been done! You intended to kill yourself if necessary, that was your plan yes? Think what that would have done to your dad, to _me_! You two don't think of such things, you just run into danger without a second thought! Save lives at the risk of your own, not bothering with how it will affect those who love you! If you had died I-" His father's voice broke off and the room was enveloped in silence once more. The quiet dragged on for a long while and the only thing that could be heard was the sound of his father's ragged breathing.

"I'm sorry." He finally found the courage to say. "I didn't know what else to do."

"Hamish... don't ever think that... your dad and I would have thought of something I-what you did was brave and I know your dad found it noble but I would much rather you be a coward and alive than the reverse. I may have no biological claim to you but make no mistake that you are my son as well. I will not allow you to put your life at risk, not for any reason." His father finally explained and let out a sigh as though relieved to have said it. Hamish studied him for a moment and nodded lightly.

"Don't be a hero, got it." Hamish supplied and hoped that would be enough.

"No. You don't... but that's to be expected. You and your dad can't even help it, its been encoded in your DNA somewhere, much to my distaste. But I suppose its just another reason I find the two of you so extraordinary." His father huffed out roughly. Hamish smiled at the confession and his father couldn't help but smile back. "I'm just glad you're ok." He added and swooped down to press a quick kiss to the boy's cheek before retreating the room.

**Ok, so the story John told about the car crash is a long awaited explanation to chapter 10 when John explains he can't drive during the Baskerville case. So if you were wondering if I was just a loser who was too stupid to finish that story line, no. I'm just a loser who waits until the last minute. Also this fic is coming to an end and with it the end of the series. I'm so glad for all of those who have stuck with this and for those of you who have been reading since my first story! I still plan to write, as I said before I'll be taking requests which you can either send to me here or on tumblr. I know tumblr appeals to some for the anonymous option, I've recieved a few like that. Only just keep in mind I'll probably be more likely to complete ones for those who I can contact just so I can clear certain details and credit you for your ideas. So this is the end of multichapter fics for me, at least for now. Anyway, I'd love to hear it if you guys have any requests for how you'd like to see this story end or what you'd like to happen before it does. Thanks!**


	23. Chapter 23

**A Boy In Need**

**Chp 23  
**

"You think you're ready now?"

"As ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

Hamish walked out of his therapist's office with a vague sense of relief. It had been roughly four months since he started therapy and it had been spent talking mostly talking about his day to day life. He wasn't dreading talking about Reta per say, but he wasn't thrilled about it either. It was a can of worms he never felt particularly prepared to discuss. However he knew he'd waited long enough and he was comfortable with this woman. Besides there was only so long he could talk about his father's experiments. Well… maybe that's not entirely true, but he was tired of it. Carmen never hinted that she was anything other than interested in what he had to say, but she was probably looking to get onto the next topic. He'd really exhausted the number of ways one could complain about thumbs in the microwave.

She was probably saying so as she spoke to his father about their session and scheduling the next appointment. His father looked flustered which was odd but then he'd never really come to these things. It was more of his dad's scene, to be the nurturing one, taking care of most things. Hamish wasn't even sure his father had ever set foot in his school for a teacher conference, or taken him to a doctor's visit, or even to the dentist. It was likely his father had never attended such things for himself. For a man with so little to do he was always far too busy. It didn't bother the boy much though, he was sure that his father would have embarrassed him some way. He wasn't doing so that time, but Hamish was wary and watched him with a careful eye none the less.

When his father finished talking with Carmen she waved at him and Hamish waved back. His father's face remained predictably blank as he led them out of the building and to the road. Hamish wondered sometimes if his therapist would tell his parents about their sessions. She wasn't supposed to, but apparently he had trust issues now so he was a bit suspicious. They never said anything if she did, but his father's silence was both common and alarming. If she hadn't said anything it was just as likely the detective had deduced it, he was quite good at that after all. The boy didn't ask as they walked down the street, no matter how badly he wanted to know, he simply walked in silence alongside his father.

Finally his father stopped unexpectedly causing Hamish to turn back and observe the older man. He didn't look upset, but then he never did. It was a difficult and subtle art to how his father expressed emotion, and it took an experienced eye to spot it. Hamish hoped that whatever had upset his father was not too serious, he already felt emotionally spent from his conversation with Carmen. He waited patiently as his father struggled to find the words he was looking for.

"You talked to her about it today." His father stated calmly, though his whole demeanour was a dead giveaway to how he really felt.

"She's not supposed to tell you what we talk about." Hamish murmured angrily, mostly to himself. He knew it didn't matter much at this point, but it aggravated him all the same.

"She didn't. It was very obvious by the way the two of you were acting." His father explained in defence. Hamish nodded in acknowledgement though he still wasn't sure how much Carmen might have willingly given away. "That's good." His father blurted out after sometime and Hamish was caught off guard. His father didn't hold emotions in high regard; normally he would argue that they serve no purpose at all. The boy wouldn't have thought he'd have an opinion on his therapeutic process so long as it pleased his dad. "I mean… it took your dad a long time too, to talk about things. I spent a lot of time trying to convince him to see a therapist believe it or not, and even more time telling him to talk to the woman. He was stubborn of course, as usual, but I tried my best to encourage him. The mind is the most vital part of a person, it requires proper maintenance, which most people require help attaining. I know I haven't said much in the way of positive feedback as far as your treatment goes but I suppose I figured you had your dad for that. In case I have not made it painfully obvious for your underdeveloped mind I will state this now: I am proud of your achievements in therapy." His dad continued on in a manner that was both rambling and right to the point.

"Thank you… I think." Hamish replied slowly, not sure how much he liked being referred to as underdeveloped.

"I will be glad to put this whole episode behind us." His father sighed and then continued walking. Hamish agreed, though he wasn't sure how easy it would be to accomplish that. They hailed a cab after that and proceeded to make their way towards Baker Street. His dad was there by then and was likely preparing dinner or ordering it. That all depended on what his work day had been like. Hamish hoped they were ordering takeaway, the night before had been spent by both him and his dad hung over the toilet seat do to an unfortunate experiment with the eggs his father had failed to mention. He wasn't so sure how ready he was to test the safety of their fridge again. When they walked in the door he could hear his dad completing an order for egg rolls and he let out a sigh of relief. His father cast a suspicious glance his way but said nothing.

"Hamish, Sherlock! I just finished ordering some takeaway, should be here soon." His dad greeted warmly and walked closer to place a quick kiss to his husband's lips. Hamish only scrunched his face in distaste minutely but it was enough to earn a laugh from his dad. The man moved over and ruffled the boy's hair lovingly. "Sorry to offend young master, and how was your day?" His dad asked affectionately.

"It was…" Hamish began and then paused to think of an appropriate answer. The day had been tiring to be sure. It had started with a trig exam and multiple reprimands for correcting his professors. Then of course he'd gotten in a fight with that Donovan boy in lunch again and managed to rip his best trousers in the process. After school his father had taken him to his appointment which of course was an ordeal. Talking about Reta made him remember everything that she'd done, everything he'd let her do. It was a hurtful reminder of the biggest mistake he'd made. That was enough to make him respond immediately with a shout "I'm bloody exhausted and I just want to eat and go straight to bed thank you!" He didn't though. He couldn't, because it wasn't entirely true. His father's approval and his dad's smiling face were something that reminded him of the good that Reta had brought him. Through the whole thing she'd managed to be the greatest proof of how greatly his parents loved him and how wonderful he had it compared to so many others. In that way he felt happy, light, and even enthusiastic. So instead he said "ok." Because revelation or no revelation a Watson could only express so many emotions in one day without having a pint, and he was a bit young still.

"Glad to hear it, now go and wash up for supper." His dad laughed and pushed Hamish towards the bathroom. As the boy walked towards the bathroom he could sense his parents kissing by the way his stomach churned as so many children's do at even the mere mention of their parents being intimate. Though as he began washing his hands he imagined that it was a small price to pay for the life he had. After all, how many kids can say their dads are the great Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?

**It's over. Phew. That took longer than a lot of my stories! I'm glad you all stuck with me through it, I hope you enjoyed it. I wasn't sure if I could pull off parentlock but I did better than expected, at least as far as my own personal opinions are concerned. I'd be open to doing more parentlock one shots, though my first one shot is going to be a werelock because I've already promised a lot of people. So requests are open and I look forward to writing more for you guys in the future!**


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